


Satan Take The Wheel / Fall Like Lightning Down From Heaven

by blue_fish



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Bondage, Community: inception_kink, D/s, Dom/sub, Electricity, Flogging, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Religious Themes & References, Sex Toys, Tie Porn, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Vibrator, Violet Wand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-11
Updated: 2011-07-10
Packaged: 2017-10-21 06:13:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 25,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/221835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_fish/pseuds/blue_fish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In part one, Eames forges Satan, and carries hints of this over topside. Arthur gets caught up in it, leading to a d/s scene that both unexpectedly enjoy, though feel guilty about afterwards. In the second part, Arthur comes back for more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"I don't like it," Arthur says. "It's not solid enough. Too much of a risk."

Predictably, Eames gives him a long-suffering sigh. Predictably, Ariadne looks amused, and their extractor, Niccoli, just looks irritated.

Niccoli is a Cobb prodigy; one of his former students who, against Cobb's warnings, followed in his footsteps anyway. He's just a few years younger than Arthur, not half the extractor that Cobb was, but decent enough on solid jobs.

"I've done more on less information," Eames says. "You know this."

Arthur does know it. Eames has forged the elderly, the young, an infant once. Famous people, sick people, dying and dead people. Murderers, saints, angels. And maybe Arthur doesn't know everything about Eames—nor needs to—but he's seen enough to know that forges affect him in subtle and not-so-subtle ways outside of dreams.

He'd caught onto this after a job they'd done right after Fischer. This was around the time that they had started fucking semi-regularly, instead of the quick, half-hearted, often anger-fueled groping and rutting of years before. It might have been the first time he'd looked at Eames with fondness, or maybe anything aside from a combination of lust and irritation. Eames had spent weeks in the dream, forging an elderly woman. Arthur hadn't thought much of it, aside from acknowledging that Eames was good at what he did. Later, he'd sat back at his desk and just watched Eames for a second. Watched him struggle to hold onto a pen, and stop to flex and extend his fingers every few minutes, as if they ached. He'd thought it strange then, how the dream could affect Eames in waking life. Couldn't he just shut it off?

Later on, in the hotel room together, he'd seen (he'd _felt_ ) that it wasn't just in his mind. Eames's knuckles were actually swollen, as with arthritis. His hands shook when he touched Arthur. His grip was weaker.

The godforsaken Tillman job where Eames had forged a twelve year old boy, and all of the bullshit that Arthur had to put up with in the three days after that. Fucking rubber bands snapped at his head and shoves and nudges meant to be playful but which were actually just irritating.

Then there had been the coughing and hacking after Eames had forged someone with lung cancer.

These weren't instances of Eames not being able to mentally shake off a character. His body reacted accordingly, believing in waking life, at least to a point, what his mind had told him for so long. Arthur had begun to wonder, back then, how long a forger would last before they have to give it up.

Arthur has never brought this up. And if Eames knows that he knows, he doesn't say anything.

And now Eames is talking about doing this ridiculous thing, and he's going to be down there for weeks, on an intense job, and probably alone on his level for at least some of the time, too. Arthur just doesn't like it. It doesn't feel solid, there are no guarantees, it's not safe, and maybe he's a little bit worried. But these are not things he can say in front of the team.

It is, however, a complicated enough job that he feels justified in voicing his concerns.

"How are you going to forge Satan, Eames? How are you supposed to observe him?"

"I don't have to observe Satan, Arthur," Eames says. Now he looks put-upon, as if struggling to remain patient with some half-wit. "Use your head a little. I observe the mark. That, with his background with the subject, tells me enough. Many priests have a very clearly delineated view of Lucifer."

"It's just ridiculous."

"Ridiculous sometimes works," Eames says, softening a little. The smile tugging at his lips doesn't look cruel or taunting. Maybe a little bit fond.

Arthur doesn't like going into this kind of mind. He doesn't like predators, and he already knows that the priest is guilty. The young man who hired them also knows it. He also knows that a dream extraction will do absolutely shit to get the priest arrested.

"Let's have a break," Eames says. "I'm famished, you know."

"Yeah, I could go for a coffee," Ariadne says. She glances over at Niccoli as she stands up, folding her notebook and tucking her pencil into a cute vinyl case with skulls all over it. "Come with me," she says to him. "I want to talk about adding a level."

Which is probably bullshit, if Arthur knows anything about Ariadne, and he flatters himself that he does. If she's got a type, Niccoli is it: sandy hair, blue eyes, intense and possibly a little tragic. He's utterly familiar with the "type" himself, but he's always preferred a little less drama in his life. His draw to Cobb had been hero worship at first, and loyalty later. Mal had been his friend, as had Cobb, and Arthur could never consciously leave anyone behind to fight on their own. His draw ended there.

Ariadne turns and winks at Arthur on her way out the door. He smiles and rolls his eyes because, really, what is she thinking is going to happen in here between him and Eames?

When they're gone, Eames gets up and goes to a mini-fridge they'd brought to the small self-storage place where they've set up shop this time. Low budget, no security, low risk. Some poor guy desperate for the details of how his life had been fucked up by some clergyman. He's probably better off not knowing, but Arthur isn't the guy's psychiatrist, so he just does the job he was hired for.

"We've run out of peanut butter," Eames says.

"You ate the last of it before we left last night. On crackers, remember?"

"Oh, balls," Eames says. He grabs two energy bars and two water bottles, handing a pair of them to Arthur. "What's the problem?" he asks.

Arthur could snap at him that there is no problem, he's just trying to work. But Eames isn't snapping at him or challenging him, and being a bitch isn't going to accomplish anything.

"I don't like any of it," Arthur says. "The kid's not going to find anything good, and the idea of you being down there for so long doing something so fucking _weird_ feels a little dangerous to me."

"Our work is dangerous," Eames says, ripping open his power bar and finishing it down in two bites. "Can't get very far in life playing it safe," he says, with his mouth full. "Is your job always safe?"

"No."

"Well."

Eames is right, like he usually is. After all, he must know what he's getting into. And anyway, Satan. Just another fictional character. Eames has probably done tons worse in his day.

** ** ** **

"Has anyone else come forward aside from Markus?" Ariadne asks, later that night.

The storage room is cold, the little space-heater not doing a hell of a lot to help. Eames and Niccoli are under together, the soft sounds of the PASIV fading in and out under the sound of the heater.

"Nope," Arthur says, glancing up over his laptop. It's just Markus, the young man who hired them. He's the only one who's even mentioned a past with Father Abernathy.

"Why can't we extract it from him, is what I wonder," Ariadne says.

"He's already sure it happened. He wants the information from Father Abernathy's side. But I think what he really wants is for the priest to understand what he did. He wants the extraction to bring it to the surface."

"It feels like more of an inception than extraction," Ariadne says.

"When you're sharing dreams," Arthur says, "the lines are always hazy. There's no 'this is extraction' and 'this is inception' and 'this is therapy.' You're inside of someone's consciousness. It shifts like sands in the desert."

She smiles at him over her sketches. "You're like a poet or something now?"

He smiles back. "Mal's words, not mine."

Between them, the timer on the PASIV runs down and Niccoli and Eames wake up, both quiet. Niccoli gives Eames a small smile, something having to do with whatever they shared down there. They unhook themselves and sit up.

"How'd it go?" Ariadne asks.

"A little weird," Niccoli says.

"In what way?" Arthur asks.

"I'm trying to think of a good Lucifer to become," Eames says. "We were thinking of beginning with Lucifer as the morning star, the angel that God loved the best. We'd gauge the Father's reaction to him, and then reveal him to be Satan. Something evil and grotesque. We were working on the first part. I'd have to forge something of the utmost physical beauty and we can't seem to find an agreed-upon standard."

"Just go in as you are," Arthur says. Two seconds later, he feels the heat creep up his neck and to his cheeks, because, fuck it all, that just slipped out and he hadn't planned or measured that response at all. He doesn't look up from his laptop as he continues, shrugging. "I mean, who can tell what someone is going be to attracted to? Just go in and find out, then change according to what you find about him."

When he does glance up, Eames is blushing, too. "Arthur," he says, "are you suggesting we play it by ear? Are you without irony telling me to not have a plan?"

Arthur is quietly grateful that Eames deflected his idiotic and utterly embarrassing brain-mouth filter fail. It's been a really long day. "I improvise a lot. Not everything has to be mapped out. Shit happens."

But he's still blushing, and Eames is too, and Ariadne is pretending to draw something but the corners of her mouth are quirked up in a way that says she clearly thinks this is _sweet_ and probably really fucking funny, too.

"Let's call it a night," Arthur says. "I have some networking to do and a few names to trace. I found a photograph of Abernathy and Markus with a bunch of other kids; I've got to get their names. Maybe we could throw a few of them around when we take him under."

"I've got to get some actual sleep," Eames says.

"I've got to make Niccoli watch Donnie Darko with me," Ariadne says. "Because he's never seen it, and that's so wrong."

Niccoli grins, and they two of them are quick to pack their stuff up and get going. They call out goodbyes over their shoulders while Arthur and Eames are still cleaning up for the night.

They are both quick and efficient, having done this routine for years. They're back at their hotel room (it's just cheaper to share,) twenty minutes later.

The hotel is at least warm, and there's a mini-bar and a bed where they can have sex later, but Arthur is tired so it probably won't be anything epic. Still, it's a comfortable thing.

Arthur is grabbing some clothes out of his overnight bag when Eames takes hold of his elbow and pulls him around to face him. He's smiling a little as he leans in for a kiss. "That was sweet of you, Arthur. But I hardly think I'm that pretty."

"Then you're not looking," Arthur says, flushing and pulling away, because, admittedly, he still feels like an idiot.

"I'm being realistic about my work, is what I'm doing," Eames says. "I know I'm interesting and have a certain appeal. But when you're talking about physical ideals, you're not talking about a man of average height and average coloring, with teeth that look as if he'd eaten rocks as a child."

Arthur turns to him, stunned into silence. He takes Eames and turns him around, so that they're both facing the mirror over the cabinet. He looks at Eames over his shoulder, holding him in place.

"I can't believe you," Arthur says. "You're--- I mean, look at your _face._ What the fuck is wrong with you? Not to get all weird with you or anything, but you're actually _beautiful._ "

Eames actually ducks his head, bites his lip, and refuses to look at them. If Arthur is not mistaken, the small smile on his lips is legitimately bashful. Eames plays at being lecherous once in a while. But he's actually _shy_.

"You can't define beauty," Eames says with a shrug, still looking down.

"I can define whatever the hell I want," Arthur answers. "You make me say stupid things."

Eames turns in his arms and backs him away from the mirror, toward the bed.

"I'd kind of like to fuck you," Arthur says, shifting their positions so that he's the one throwing Eames down on his back.

"Then you may," Eames says.

Arthur doesn't feel quite so tired anymore.

** ** ** **

They end up getting Father Abernathy in the confessional, of all things. In the cover of night, they take him over to the rectory and Ariadne has just enough time to whisper to Niccoli that she's always thought that "rectory" was a funny word, when they're hooking up the PASIV and setting it to ten minutes.

Arthur stays topside on this one. It's not often that he takes point topside and does absolutely nothing else, but every dreamwalker needs to sit it out sometimes. Point suits him just fine, especially in jobs where he already knows the outcome. No one needs to be in this dream to know the truth, least of all the severe-looking Father Abernathy. And he's not sure exactly what this is supposed to accomplish anyway. It won't stand up in court, men like this don't care about their crimes, and he's pretty sure that knowing what goes on in the priest's head is only going to hurt Markus even worse.

 _Truth never comes into the world but like a bastard,_ he thinks, and, fuck, this nonsense has got him quoting Milton, of all things. He feels like the world's most pretentious douche, even to himself. He blames his fixation on Eames's research.

' _You could forge God instead,_ ' Arthur had suggested to Eames the night before, as he brushed his teeth in the bathroom. Eames was on the bed, flipping through a book of religious art and texts. _'Wouldn't that be even scarier?'_

Eames had answered, _'God wouldn't be able to lead him into temptation. Oh, look here:_ Spirits when they please can either sex assume, or both. _Seems that they're forgers themselves, yeah?'_

So now Arthur glances at Eames's face in the semi-dark, smoothed out in sleep, and wonders what sort of "temptation" is going on down there. An outside lamp filtered in through stained glass provides the only light and paints the room in shards of color, and Arthur finds himself staring.

Eames doesn't have to forge beauty. Who could not see that? He doesn't think he's being a sap or anything. Yes, it had been embarrassing to blurt that out, but it's only the truth, like saying that Hawai'i is lush, the rainforest is damp, Miami is hot.

 _Lush, damp and hot,_ , his mind supplies. He might not be a psychologist, but he's no stranger to the workings of the mind, and he rolls his eyes at himself. Eames makes him say and think ridiculous things, and that's probably dangerous. _Eames_ is dangerous. There's no way this can last forever.

He checks the window, makes sure no cars are going by, or are pulling into the parking lot. He hates having to stall.

The counter on the PASIV hits 5 minutes, about the time they're probably shifting to the next level. Even though Arthur isn't in the dream, he senses the change. He's done this long enough that he feels it in his bones, the way other people dream, what it feels like to drop down further, to be in that deep. The way the group-consciousness shifts all at once. He's come to expect it.

What he doesn't expect is for the temperature of the room to drop suddenly.

It is cold out there, definitely. A draft, is what he logically thinks. From that stained glass window. It doesn't feel like a draft, really, more like a bone-deep chill from everywhere in the room. He shivers in spite of himself. The air feels constricted, tight, too thick. And decidedly a few degrees colder than it was just a minute ago.

Arthur presses his fingers to the priest's neck. He doesn't usually touch other dreamers, but it's too quiet, and something doesn't feel right. The entire room feels like someone has just died. But Abernathy is alive. His face goes from slack to tense. Most people under Somnicin don't show outward reactions, but some do, and this man is. He is clearly distressed.

Arthur shrugs it off and checks the window again. Still quiet and deserted out there.

When the counter reaches 2 minutes, he checks the sleepers again. Abernathy looks like a man who died in terror – though he's still breathing. Arthur feels no pity.

He glances at Eames and jumps back, reaching for his gun. His heart pounds wildly and he stops himself, catches his breath. For a second, when he'd first looked, Eames had been gone. Actually gone, and replaced by some person he hadn't recognized. Someone (some _thing_ ) half in shadow, twisted, vaguely human.

"Fuck," he breathes out, stilling himself again.

The play of colored lights over Eames's face—what had made him appear to be someone else—are the result of headlights hitting the stained glass. In a minute or two, someone is going to walk through the doors of the church, some late-night wanderer in need of guidance.

Ninety seconds.

Maybe, he thinks, they'll stop to light a candle or something. Or, it's one of Abernathy's friends or associates, someone who will have no problem walking into the rectory to look for him.

There isn't anything to pack up except for the PASIV, and they've got sixty seconds on it. Arthur hears a car door open and then close; the headlights go off.

When it's down to 30 seconds, Arthur puts headphones over Ariadne's ears and presses "Play." No more Edith Piaf, that had been Cobb's thing.

With ten seconds on the timer, the doors to the church open, and by the time whoever it is might get suspicious that there is no priest inside, the team is awake, oriented. Niccoli comes awake last, with a gasp, andgets to his feet. His eyes look too wide in the near-dark. Ariadne glances at him, then at Eames.

Eames is making a point of not looking at anyone.

"Someone's in the church," Arthur tells them, without waiting to hear of success or failure. "Our cars are parked on the next street. We go out the pantry and split up."

"I'll take the sedan," Eames says, already turning away and heading toward the door.

"I'll ride with you," Arthur says.

"No. Go with them; I need some time," Eames says, and then he's gone, out the door.

When Arthur is in the car with Ariadne and Niccoli, he asks what happened down there.

"Abernathy confessed everything," Ariadne says.

"I wasn't even necessary," Niccoli says. "I didn't have to find anything, didn't have to steal the information. He just gave it up."

Ariadne says, "Arthur, I think he's going to confess. It was that powerful."

"Eames?" Arthur asks.

The two are silent for a moment, before Niccoli speaks up. "I don't know," he says, quiet. "I just saw a few seconds there, at the end. I would have confessed to anything, too."

"Did he do it?" Arthur asks. "He forged Satan?"

"Abernathy is going to confess publicly," Ariadne says. "You know what this means, right? It wasn't even an extraction."

It hits Arthur, what she's saying. "Inception? Are you sure?"

"If he does confess," Ariadne says, "which I really think he will, then yeah, right? If you think about it."

"Drop me off at my hotel," Arthur says.

"Eames said he wanted to be alone," Ariadne warns. "Arthur, I'd listen to him this time. This wasn't an easy thing. The whole dream left a really bad vibe. It was ugly."

"I'll get a different room," he says. "No sense going somewhere else."

Ariadne and Niccoli glance at each other in the front seat, but don't argue. Arthur doesn't like the silence; he wonders what he missed. He's glad he missed it. He's more than glad that the stupid job is over. Extraction, inception, whatever they did down there, it doesn't matter. The lines are hazy anyway. The bad guy is going to confess and hopefully their client is happy with the result, and either way they get paid and they move on.

The "moving on" part is what he wants most now.

** ** ** **

The hotel room is mostly dark when he gets there. This is concerning, because he had expected Eames to come straight back here. But maybe Eames needs to go somewhere to lie low for a few hours or whatever. If that's the case, then there's no need for Arthur to get a different room. By the time Eames figures himself out and comes back, he'll already be--

"Told you not to come," a voice whispers from the dark corner.

Arthur has his glock out and his back pressed against the door before locating the source of the voice. He doesn't turn the light on yet either. Because that was not Eames. That was the voice of a stranger.

"Told you I'd need time."

Those were Eames's words, but not his voice. Not even his accent.

But the thing is, it _smells_ like Eames, which is really weird. Arthur had never thought about that before but in the dark his other senses are heightened, and it's not aftershave or cologne or any of those things, just the scent of his skin up close that Arthur didn't even realize he knew before now, and when did that happen?

He's not stupid enough to call out ' _Eames_ ', because even if he hadn't been a point man trained in special ops, he would still have seen enough movies to know better.

In the end, he doesn't even have to holster his gun, because he's disarmed before he takes another step into the room. Eames is whispering, _'Stop it, stop it',_ against his jaw as he struggles briefly, still not convinced that it actually is Eames in the room with him.

"I told you," Eames says into his ear, when he gets him pinned against the wall.

"Get off me," Arthur says, shoving at him. Because fuck this, and fuck Eames for scaring him like that and acting like a shithead about it. "I'll get my stuff and get a different room, Jesus fucking Christ, Eames." He'll go, but he's pissed and he's not going to say he's sorry about it either. It's his hotel room too and if Eames can't do his job and deal with his issues without being a dick, that's not Arthur's problem. But he can still at least respect his wish to be alone.

Except, Eames isn't letting up. He's still got Arthur crowded against the door in the darkened room.

"Come on, move," Arthur says. "If you want me gone, I'll go." He does not add ' _asshole_ ' to the end of it; he assumes it's implied.

The only light comes from the split in the curtains and the parking lot outside; just enough to see colors, shapes, textures and intent. Details, not so much. But Eames pulls back a little, and his eyes are dark, really dark, as if they're all pupil and none of the dark grey and—Arthur admits it—hazy green he can sometimes discern in them.

Even in the dim light, Arthur can see that Eames's lips are red and wet. And his eyes, aside from being dark, look slightly too wide, the line of his lashes just a millimeter too high, enough to give him an almost vacant look.

No; not vacant. Because Eames is here, and he's focused. He just looks predatory. The way sharks' eyes look before the kill.

Arthur takes a breath and steadies himself, because "calm" is what he does best. No one can defuse a situation the way he can. "I don't think you should be alo--"

He doesn't get to finish the word, because Eames's tongue is in his mouth. Arthur backs up quickly enough that he raps his head against the door, because Eames's tongue is cold, it's _cold_ , what the fuck is this – like Eames had been sucking on ice or something.

And Eames has still got his eyes open. Unblinking, too wide, still staring at Arthur. This is not the way Eames kisses, deep and hot and insistent. This is too hard, maybe even angry. And the open eyes are too creepy to keep looking at. Arthur pushes him away. He touches his own lips to see if they're cold, but they feel normal.

Eames goes without a fight. His staring eyes don't blink, they just narrow a fraction. He raises a hand to the side of Arthur's head and Arthur flinches like a little kid or some kind of head-shy dog and immediately hates himself for that.

But Eames just pets his hair, a little too rough, over and over again. His other hand goes to Arthur's side, by his hip, braced against the door. He's caged in like this. Eames is maybe an inch shorter than he is, but currently he's towering over Arthur and Arthur has no idea how that's even possible. _Majestic though in ruin,_ he thinks.

"I said I'd go." His voice sounds small and shocked.

"You also said," Eames says, his voice still a whisper, "or at least, you attempted to say, that you didn't think I should be alone."

"It's up to you." Arthur straightens up against the door so that he's not as small as he suddenly feels, and puts on his professional voice. "It's your gig here. Whatever you need."

"Oh, you are so helpful," Eames says. There's a strange, mocking lilt to his voice that Arthur has never heard before in this context. "Always willing to be of service, my Arthur. The things you will sacrifice for the greater good. Isn't that so."

The hand that had been petting his hair slides down to his jaw now, a little too much pressure to be a caress. Eames's tongue darts out to wet his lips again, strangely dark like there's blood on it ( _which is ridiculous_ , Arthur thinks,) and he still hasn't blinked, he still hasn't even moved his eyes.

"We-we should," Arthur begins, furious with himself for stuttering. "You should sleep."

Eames's hand, the one that had caged him in on his side, slides firmly across his hip now, pressing him back against the door with his broad palm. Insistently, his hand travels lower, to the front of his thigh, then creeping toward the inside of it.

"Let's get to b-bed... oh..."

He's afraid to close his eyes because this person, this stranger who looks in some ways like Eames, is a dangerous thing but he's just slid his hand up to Arthur's inseam where he rests it, either a promise or a threat, depending on what Arthur does next.

"Arthur, are you tuh-tuh-tired, pet?"

"Stop it," Arthur demands.

Eames moves his hand away.

"Stop making fun of me," Arthur corrects.

Eames's hand goes back to where it was. He leans in again, moving his hand now, and it's a little too hard, just a little, and Arthur can hear his own breath coming too harshly.

"Be sure," Eames whispers, breath cold against Arthur's ear.

His knees buckle just a little bit and he braces against the door. He's not sure, not entirely, not of this. But he is sure that Eames shouldn't be alone. Arthur doesn't know how much he wants or doesn't want, but this is Eames, after all, and he can't leave; he has never run out on a teammate. And then there is the fact that he is blindingly hard, and it happened so quickly that he's reeling with it. He can't imagine walking out of this dark room into a world of sanity and thinking 'what the fuck just happened' and worrying about it all night. It's Eames.

Eames, who leans forward so that his face is barely touching Arthur's neck, nudging lightly and inhaling. "You're afraid," he whispers, "I smell it on you."

"I'm not." Eames may be a lot of things and is infuriating and sometimes a dick, and a cheater at cards and a thief and criminal and is clearly ten times more fucked up than Arthur had ever thought, but Eames will never hurt him. He's sure of it.

He's pretty sure of it.

"I'm not leaving you here like th--"

The hand not on his crotch comes back up to his throat, not hard enough to hurt or damage, but just enough to make it uncomfortable. Everything dwindles down to those two points of contact, Eames's two hands on him and nothing else.

"Loyal Arthur," Eames says, his tone still mocking, a challenge. "Can't ever walk away. Not until it's too late."

He can walk away, if he wants to. He knows that Eames wouldn't be able to stop him. Eames wouldn't want to stop him in the first place.

 _Eames_ wouldn't. Arthur swallows hard against the hand at his throat and tries to muster up some dignity in his position. "' _Who overcomes by force hath overcome but half his foe,_ " he says, trying to hold eye contact.

Both of the hands on him ease up a little and Arthur takes a breath. Tries to orient himself. He's still leaning against the door, gasping, aching with need, stupidly intimidated and out of his depth. But capable—more than—of making his own decisions and taking responsibility for them.

Eames chuckles in the darkness and takes a step back. His arms fall to his sides, and Arthur can just about make out the arrogant sweep of his eyelashes as he looks Arthur over, as if he can see perfectly in the dark.

"I'm hurt, Arthur," Eames says. "Of course you are free to go."

"I told you I wouldn't."

" _'Subtle he needs must be, who could seduce angels_ '," Eames says.

And that's really all it takes. Eames is quoting Milton back at him and maybe Arthur will feel ashamed of himself in the morning, but right now he can't even think. No one has ever quoted back to him. It's fucked up and he feels like he's swallowed fire.

"Eames," he says, with nothing to follow it up.

"Down," Eames tells him.

It's hardly subtle, but Arthur is on his knees before Eames has to tell him twice. The position surprises him; it seems to have happened without his brain's knowledge.

Eames's laugh is a dark, cold thing. "Oh, Arthur. How easy. And how completely unsurprising."

" _'Freely they stood who stood, and fell who fell,'_ " Arthur says. He knows he's got his defiant look on, even though he's the one on his knees and it's mostly dark. He also knows that Eames can still see this, and Arthur needs that. He needs Eames to know that he's making a decision.

"Of course," Eames says, the condescending bastard.

Arthur reaches for him, for the button of his pants, but Eames steps back, out of reach. And keeps stepping back, leaving Arthur to reach out until he drops his hands. There's something about the way he's moving that Arthur isn't sure of. Eames has always been fluid, with quick hands and an unmistakable, inimitable gait. This isn't it. This is some kind of slithery movement, a little too liquid, and entirely unfamiliar. But it's still too dark for Arthur to see exactly what's so different about it.

Eames sits on the edge of the bed and beckons. Arthur should get up, he knows he should stand up and walk over to him like a human being and not some kind of pet, but he also knows that's not what Eames wants – and when had it become in Arthur's best interest to do what someone else wants without being asked?

Or, he wonders, has he always done that exact thing?

Well, he's not doing it like an animal. This is his show, too. Still on his knees, he smiles, trying to match Eames for looking predatory. Or at least confident. One-handed, he strips his shirt off and throws it to the side. He takes a second to undo his own pants and then he walks forward on his knees – not on his hands and knees. It's awkward, especially with his pants still on but riding down, but at least he's able to look up at Eames, and not at the floor.

When he considers what it would feel like, though, to crawl towards him with his eyes on the floor, it steals his breath and he fights to stay upright. _Fuck, I would do that,_ he thinks.

When he gets within reach, he goes again for the top of Eames's pants.

"No," Eames tells him.

Arthur looks up, confused. "Then..."

Eames looks down past where Arthur kneeling between his thighs with hands poised over his pants, unsure. Arthur can barely make out the line of his gaze in the semi-dark, but he gets it anyway.

He gets what Eames wants, and it once again knocks the breath clear out of him; he actually hears it leave him in a rush.

 _No, no, tell him no, fuck you Eames, that's ridiculous,_ he thinks. But his body disagrees wholeheartedly. He would probably be blushing in humiliation if there was any blood left in the upper half of his body as he bows his head – he's got to, if he wants to see what he's doing – and lowers his hands to Eames's boots.

Unlacing them takes longer than he wants it to. His fingers are trembling a little by the time he's done, with a mix of adrenaline and lust. He takes the boots off and sets them aside, then looks up at Eames. He can't see his reaction, that's the thing, it's too dark to read his expression with accuracy. But from what he can tell, it still looks cold, distant. Eames still doesn't look happy with him or even excited. He just looks mildly amused.

It makes Arthur feel lonely. That's the fucking weirdest thing. Not hurt, or ashamed, or even rejected. Just like he's in this by himself. It's an alien feeling, clawing its way up inside him and it takes him a second to untangle it. He wishes for approval. Slowly, he lays his head on Eames's thigh and curls one hand around his ankle. It's probably the most appeasing gesture he's made in his entire life, and Eames remains silent and unmoved.

After a few moments of silence, he hears the unmistakable sound of Eames undoing his pants. Strange, since he hadn't felt him move. Arthur looks up, thinking, _Finally_.

"Get to work," Eames says, with a smirk in his voice. He strips his shirt off, but only yanks his trousers down just enough.

Arthur slides his hands up Eames's thighs, slow and teasing like he knows he likes it, and looks up from under lowered eyelids, because that's a look that always gets Eames going, too.

But this time Eames just grabs the back of his head and yanks him down with an impatient noise.

It's too fast, too much, too _much_. Eames's hands feel like a stranger's, and one he can't trust, at that. He's strong and not letting up. Arthur can't pull his head back, so he tries to press his hands against Eames's hips, a warning of 'let me do this.'

Eames jerks Arthur's head back by his hair. "No, no," he says. "None of that." He takes one of Arthur's hands and places it on Arthur's back, and then the other.

It's instant and bizarre, how the tension eases out of him now that he doesn't have use of his hands. It's easier this way. Instinctively, Arthur links his fingers behind his back, shoulders drawn back. He feels tied up even though he's the one restraining his own hands.

When Eames pushes his head back down, he goes easily and, as Eames ordered him to, gets to work. After a few seconds he feels a little dizzy with lack of oxygen, like swimming underwater, but he's not being hurt, really. He twists his hands behind his back, shifts his knees for a better angle and to take some of the strain off his back. His heartbeat thrums in his head, so hard that he feels his entire body is pulsing with it. He wonders if Eames can hear it. If he can hear it like he can obviously hear Arthur panting lightly when he gives him a second to breathe, can feel him shifting and trying not to squirm. He uses his tongue when he's able, lips when he's given enough leeway to move.

Yet, Eames is too quiet. Arthur wants to look up again, but at the same time, knows better than to stop. It's not until Eames releases the back of his head that he realizes he's been making small, hungry sounds – and he's also run out of breath. He stops, backs off, and breathes. His body buzzes with returning oxygen. Eames lays a broad palm on the side of his head and presses him down against his thigh, where he rests for a second, panting. He feels quiet. Eames's fingers pet over his hair, and it feels nice, better than nice, even. He's turned on as hell, but still strangely satisfied.

Arthur makes a point of confronting his feelings when they occur to him, no matter how dark or confusing. It's the only safe way to do the job he does, long-term. If Cobb hadn't set that miserable example, no one ever would. But this time, just this once, Arthur makes the decision to wait this one out. Thinking it through is too daunting. Tomorrow, he'll wonder why. Not tonight.

"Up," Eames tells him, sounding far too composed, as if Arthur had not just given the blowjob of his life.

Maybe he hasn't. Eames would have been noisy, appreciative, twisting fitfully under him, even begging. _Eames_ would have. Arthur does not feel like he's in the room with Eames.

"Up," Eames repeats, a little darker. His hand tightens in Arthur's hair.

Arthur stands on legs that feel like water. The blood rushes from his head, he's aching all over, and when Eames lets go of his hair he stumbles just enough that he catches a glimpse of the ceiling before it starts to fade and he thinks, _Shit, I'm passing out_ and _Probably the most humiliating thing that's ever happened to me_ and _'He pursued, though more, it seems, inflamed with lust than rage._ '

Eames catches him, steadies him, and then laughs at him. "Poor thing," he says, in a voice that's not so much soothing or even condescending as it is mocking.

"Don't," Arthur warns in a shaky voice. Because whatever's happening tonight is one thing, but tomorrow's light will illuminate everything and that laugh is what's going to piss him off. When he's able to be pissed off, that is. When he's even able to think again. He'll have to cop to this eventually: Eames's demands on him, his surrender, and the fact that he likes it, maybe loves it. It might be complicated later, but right now he feels hotter than he's ever felt, unbalanced and maybe a little desperate. But Eames has never teased him while they were fucking before.

"Eames, you can't just..."

Again he isn't allowed to finish, because instead of an apology or even a word, what he gets is Eames's two fingers in his mouth, pressing down on his tongue, and his thumb and last two fingers digging into his jaw. It's going to bruise, that much is obvious, but for now he is just startled, gagging, reaching up to grip Eames's wrist.

Eames turns him around so the backs of his knees hit the bed. Arthur could kick him so easily, he could turn this into an issue, into an actual fight. He could wreck them both with a carefully placed shove or even the word "no."

He doesn't. He just holds onto Eames's wrist and tries to breathe around the fingers in his mouth, eyes watering and jaw aching. Eames's other hand comes up to grip the back of his skull, holding him in place, bending him slightly backwards over the bed. There doesn't seem to be any intent to this other than dominance. Again the blood rushes from Arthur's brain, but for a different reason. His pants, though undone, are still on and just tight enough to be on the side of painful. He feels suspended in a variety of ways.

Holding him still, Eames leans close to his ear and whispers, " _'Which way I fly is hell. Myself am hell._ '" His voice is a hiss, his breath still impossibly cool.

Arthur moans around his fingers and actually feels his eyes roll back, it hits him so hard. He starts moving his tongue now, licking and sucking instead of trying to get away.

"There we are," Eames says, low, still menacing but also delighted.

Arthur thrills to the tone of approval. He lets his arms drop and lets his mouth do all the work, with Eames holding him up. Rough fingers slide over his tongue, back and forth, over his teeth, thumbing at his bottom lip.

" _'Devil with devil damned,_ '" Eames says, "aren't we?"

When he steps in closer, Arthur presses against him instead of letting himself be pushed back. He tries to rock against Eames's thigh, with his limited movement. It frustrates him.

"' _With ruin upon ruin,_ Arthur. Ruin upon ruin."

Eames lets him go abruptly. Finally, Arthur falls back onto the bed, with Eames standing between his legs. He's panting like an animal and reaching out in the dark, for Eames, for himself, for anything to touch him.

"Don't dare," Eames warns, when he sees Arthur's hand moving between his own legs.

Arthur pulls his hands away as if the words burned them. Eames grabs hold of the waistband of his pants and underwear, and far too roughly, yanks them off. Arthur is pulled nearly off the bed and his arms flail above his head as he tries to hold onto the covers for purchase.

Before he can even right himself, Eames has got his arms under his legs and under his back, lifts him as easily as lifting a pillow, and tosses him a good three feet higher up on the bed. Arthur's breath leaves him in a rush when he lands. He's never felt smaller; it's as if Eames hadn't even exerted himself. They've thrown each other around a bit in the past, playfully and sometimes in the ring, but always with some effort. This strength doesn't even feel like the Eames he knows.

And when Eames looms over him on the bed, he nearly wants to scramble away. But those heavy, broad hands come down on his thighs, pinning him in place and Arthur didn't think it was possible to be more turned on than he already was until then.

This is when Eames usually likes to kiss. There's always some sucking and occasionally some biting involved between both of them, never hard enough to do lasting damage or even in any obvious places. But this time, there's no kissing or sucking. Just Eames knocking his legs apart and pressing down over him, too close, too hard, and just barely on the right side of too heavy.

The teeth sinking into his neck are too high up to hide the mark tomorrow, and not gentle enough. Arthur digs his fingers into the broad shoulders above him and holds on tight, trying to arch up—to either get the fuck away from this insanity or to get closer, or to finally get off—but he can't move more than a few inches.

He loses track of time but it can't be more than a few seconds before Arthur realizes that the low, keening moan is coming from _him_ and he doesn't think he's ever made a sound like that before in waking life. In dreams, maybe. When he was dying. He tries to stop, tries to regain some semblance of control over himself because this isn't a dream at all, he remembers how he got here and everything that led up to it. And loss of control at this level is terrifying. He tries to hold on to Eames, his back, shoulders, the back of his neck, but Eames is pulling away and Arthur feels like he's falling, a physical sensation.

Eames kneels up above him, finally sounding ragged, finally sounding like he needs it just as badly. He knocks Arthur's thighs farther apart and it doesn't feel like he's about to waste any more time.

"Wait, wait," Arthur manages. "Eames, please, just wait. Wait." He's forgetting something; it takes him a few seconds to figure out exactly what. So he breathes through it and tries to think.

"I'm waiting," Eames says, his voice dark and low, hands restlessly kneading at Arthur's thighs.

When it finally comes to him, he does his best to twist so that he can reach the bedside drawer. He can't reach it, knocks the alarm clock over in his panic, followed by an unopened bottle of water which both fall into Eames's overnight bag by the side of the bed and _Yes, in there_ , is what Arthur thinks as he tries to twist even further to retrieve that bag.

"Ah," Eames says, again quietly amused. "Of course. Right, hush then. Hush, Arthur. Stop."

He can't stop, he needs that bag, it's going too fast, he doesn't have the words to say what he needs.

Eames presses him down by the shoulders and says, "Stop," in a clear voice.

Arthur stops. Stops twisting, stops searching, and holds his breath. Eames stretches out over him, languorous and slow, one arm reaching over the side of the bed while his teeth graze and nip at Arthur's neck.

"Breathe," Eames orders. "I've got it. Do you not trust me, then?"

Arthur nods. The weight on his hips, on his belly and his chest steadies him more than just physically. He feels grounded, calmed.

Eames sits back on his heels again, holding the small packets in his hand. He tears them open, and just the sound of it makes Arthur arch up off the bed and try to hook his ankle around Eames's back.

"Good," Eames says. "I think you had better trust me. Don't you? You must, because look at you, Arthur. Spread out like a sacrifice under my hands. It would be foolish of you to offer yourself like this if you didn't. Imprudent. I think you are not imprudent, Arthur."

Arthur nods again, out of words. Dimly, he's aware that Eames's voice is still a little different, and the cadence is still slightly off. But the accent sounds a little more like him, for the first time since this all began.

He would stop to consider this, but Eames's slippery fingers climbing up his thighs stop all of his thoughts.

Here is where Eames usually takes his time, but everything is different tonight; everything has been the opposite of what he expects so he feels a moment of worry. Not panic, just apprehension. Panic has already ebbed from him. Just as Eames said: he wouldn't be here if he had cause not to trust him.

Yet Arthur is still surprised when Eames's fingers are as careful as they always are. Not gentle, as he sometimes is when that's what they're both in the mood for. Not by any means gentle, but careful. Thick, deft, and familiar. Not only familiar, but familiar with Arthur, too. It only takes Eames a few seconds to find that lit-up bundle of nerves inside of him. It makes Arthur's breath stutter on the inhale when he starts moving, pressing, rubbing.

This time though, Eames doesn't quit. He doesn't let up, his fingers are relentless and the pressure is a lot more than what he's used to. It's slow, deep, and hard. Every movement of his hand forces Arthur a few inches up the bed so that he's got to brace his hands on the headboard, his breath is hitching, stomach clenching – and maybe it's too much. He opens his mouth to speak, to tell him.

 _Eames, not so hard,_ is what he means to say. What comes out instead is, "Eames, yes, Jesus Christ, yes, yes."

Eames chuckles in response and keeps going.

So Arthur bites his lip and takes it. They're not even really fucking yet and he thinks he can come just from this. He can feel it coiling up inside.

Eames knows every single one of his tells and he slows down to a stop.

"Please," Arthur says before he can stop himself.

"That's very polite of you, Arthur," Eames says, pulling his fingers back slowly and rubbing light, teasing circles all over Arthur's thighs. "Wish I could tell you yes, but you're not finished yet."

He's still arching, flexing, searching for contact and not finding any. A chill runs up his spine and down his arms; he can feel the hair standing up all over him. Arthur lifts his head and looks at Eames, and then, because he feels so strangely outside of his body, looks at himself. It's too dark to see what he probably looks like but he can guess: not just sticky but soaked, splayed out, flushed, and probably the picture of want.

Eames's hands grips his thighs a little harder as he hikes them up and moves forward, pressing in while Arthur watches, or tries to watch. But his voice is soft when he speaks. "' _What thou seest, fair creature, is thyself._ '"

Eames's voice, his words, (and somewhere in Arthur's head, the fact that he remembers enough text to quote it to him,) all combine to make Arthur _want_. He has no words to articulate his need. He tips his head back, sucks in gasping breaths of air, and lets himself be taken apart.

Within a few seconds, Eames is setting a pace against him that's rougher than normal, so hard it aches. One of Arthur's thighs is pressed up against Eames's chest, calf over his shoulder, and the other hooked is over his arm. Eames leans forward, bracing one hand against the headboard which makes a brutal angle and gives him enough leverage to move with all his weight behind him.

It's only dimly that Arthur can hear himself crying out. The bed frame is shaking, headboard slamming into the wall in a way that sounds utterly cliché and would probably embarrass him in any other circumstance, and the sounds that are coming from his mouth probably just as much. He's always made a point not to shout out "fuck, yes," and things like that or to moan like they do in porn, but he's pretty sure that's what he's doing. It's so hard it doesn't even seem real, _he's_ so hard that he's starting to see colors behind his closed eyes and he can barely keep enough breath in his lungs. He wants to come, needs it so badly.

"Hands above your head," Eames grits out, before Arthur even makes a move.

He obeys without question, one hand gripping his other wrist.

"That's it, Arthur. Yes, so good. So good."

He wants to say _Thank you_ but doesn't have enough breath.

Eames presses closer so that they're nose to nose, staring into him it seems, looking into his thoughts. Arthur can't look away this time.

"You'll do that for me, Arthur. You'll do as I say."

"Yes," Arthur says, broken open and turned inside out. He's on the edge, but he'll hang there, suspended, until Eames lets him fall.

Eames drops his head against Arthur's shoulder with a low moan, and this, of all things, sounds utterly like Eames. Still he doesn't stop; he keeps the same pace, panting hot in Arthur's ear and against his neck.

But then he reaches down between them, grabbing hold of Arthur maybe just a little too hard, each rock of his hips jerking him into his hand and Arthur has to bite his lips, grit his teeth and twist his hands together to not come. It's too much, so unfair, so fucking evil and unfair.

"Please, Jesus Christ Eames, please," he begs.

Eames lets him get to the edge and then pulls his hand away, leaning down to nip and kiss at Arthur's keening mouth. Arthur thinks he can feel every nerve ending in his body lighting up at every point of contact. It feels good, it hurts, it feels good, he can't tell the difference anymore.

Eames strokes his hair, cups his jaw, runs his thumb along the underside of his throat. Arthur is just aware enough to realize that this feels like Eames's touch, like his breath, this sounds and looks like Eames.

"' _Tears such as angels weep,_ '" he whispers into Arthur's mouth. He reaches down between them, mercifully stroking him again. Then: "Yes, go on, Arthur. Let me watch."

Arthur reaches down and grabs Eames's forearm in both hands. He can feel his muscles flexing and releasing as Eames works him over, the strength of his arms, the well-known rhythm of him.

It hits him violently, like a tidal wave. He can feel himself floating out on it when it's finished with him and it's quiet, easeful. Even though Eames is still rocking into him, quicker now, Arthur feels like all of his chains have fallen away. He reaches up to cup his hand around the back of Eames's neck.

Eames turns away from him, trying to bury his face in Arthur's shoulder, murmuring what sounds suspiciously like _Don't look at me._ Arthur almost wants to laugh at him, feeling so unfettered and calm. He takes Eames's face in his hands and turns him to meet his eyes. For a moment, he thinks he can see in the dark, and if Eames is the devil, then he's Lucifer right after he fell, lost and still beautiful.

Eames is trembling all over, unable to hold himself up anymore. He sags against Arthur with a cry. Arthur pets his hair, the back of his neck, his shoulders, and lets him rest.

When Eames finally moves off of him, even in the near-dark Arthur can see that his eyes are wide; he looks apprehensive, shocked, like a man who has just walked in on himself. From experience, Arthur knows that Eames is probably about to say something ridiculous.

"I've-I've got to..." Eames says.

"You've got to get your fucking pants the rest of the way off and get your naked ass in this bed. Don't be an idiot." _And don't leave yet,_ he does not add.

Eames gets as far as disposing of the condom and getting his pants to his ankles. Arthur is exhausted; he's not sure how much he has left in him, but it's always been his way to dig a little deeper and keep going, so he does. He's sticky and sore and doesn't want to move, but he sits up gingerly and pulls Eames back to the bed, helping him to kick his pants the rest of the way off.

They lie side by side on the bed. Eames doesn't seem to know what to do with himself, and Arthur sure as hell can't think of anything, either. He's still shaking.

"I hurt you," Eames says.

" _'Freely they stood who stood,'_ " Arthur reminds him, " _'and fell who fell.'_ "

"Arthur."

"Eames, rest, okay? I'm tired. Let's figure it out in the morning."

It isn't until he turns on his side and wraps his hand around Eames's arm that he feels him relax.

When he's sure that Eames is asleep, Arthur does what he always does when he's confused or at a loss. He reaches for his iPhone and starts to research.

 

** ** ** **

Eames doesn't actually rest through the night. He's restless for a few hours, twisting uncomfortably in the sheets. Arthur can see by the light of his iPhone that Eames looks tormented in his light sleep. He reaches down beside the bed and retrieves the fallen clock that he knocked over earlier. 2:15 AM. It seems now as if that happened in a different world, and the change hits him suddenly – an acute loss. Just like he was reading about.

His stirring and fidgeting wakes Eames. Arthur can feel that shift in his consciousness without even looking at him.

"Hey," Arthur whispers.

Eames is quiet for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is gravelly with sleep, and low with what could be pain. "' _Now conscience wakes despair that slumber’d, wakes the bitter memory of what he was._ '"

"No," Arthur says. " _He soon discerns, and weltering by his side, one next himself in power, and next in crime.'_ "

Eames turns to him, looking him over for a second. "I read Milton to prepare for the job," he says. "How did you come to know it well enough?"

This is not what Arthur expected to talk about, but at least it's something. "After the Fischer job," he says. He's never told anyone about this before, but now is as good a time as any, and he's seen a side of Eames that he probably wanted to keep to himself, so maybe he should share something. "Dom told me about him and Mal in limbo. They spent a lifetime in there, fifty years or something. It was Dom who... I don't know if I can tell you this."

"Cobb incepted Mal," Eames finishes.

Arthur glances at him, surprised.

"Cobb wanted to make amends to the team. He told me some of it. Not the whole thing, just that."

"Right," Arthur says. Maybe because he's feeling particularly exposed after what they just did, and a little raw, it hurts a bit that Dom had confided in seemingly everyone, and not just him. And that Ariadne knew before he did. "Right, well. It seemed to me like they made this paradise in limbo. And it was strange that Dom was both Adam and the serpent, you know? He made her fall. Anyway I had read the text in college, but after I found out about that, it reminded me. So I read it a few times."

"I see," Eames says. "Theirs was a false paradise, though."

"Aren't they all?" Arthur asks.

Eames goes silent again, looking somewhere past Arthur. "I warned you to leave."

"And I opted to stay."

Eames runs his fingers along Arthur's jaw. "I left marks on you. God, Arthur, I didn't want this."

"I did."

"You couldn't have known what would happen," Eames says.

Arthur turns to face him, too. "There were so many times when I asked you to stop, or slow down. You did, each time. I wasn't afraid. Eames, I can't judge you for anything. I wanted it. A lot. I might not have known when I walked through the door—which, by the way, was just to get my stuff and leave you alone—but I had plenty of opportunities to change my mind. You know I did."

"I've never done anything like this before," Eames says. "I've hurt people in the ring. Hell, I've pulled the trigger before. But I've never hurt someone that I..."

He clamps his mouth shut, thinks for a second, and Arthur can see him weighing his words. This part scares him. They can do all the fucking that they want, but Eames is going to lay something heavy on him right now, and Arthur holds his breath, waiting.

"I feel in so many different ways about you, Arthur, each more complicated than the last. And now this."

"Yeah," Arthur says, happy to have avoided certain words and phrases that he's way too exposed to hear right now. "Okay, yeah, this was a pretty rough first time. Things like this need planning. Negotiation. We did it all wrong."

" _First_ time?"

Arthur doesn't let him continue. "And as for what you're feeling—the guilt or whatever—that's pretty common." He holds up the iPhone and waves it in Eames's direction. "I'm supposed to help you through that. And you're supposed to aftercare me. I read about this on the internet."

"You... looked this up? _First_ time? As in, you want..."

 _"In the past," Arthur says, "I've had guys, girls, try to get into this with me. A few of them started to get rough with me and I always shut it down before it got started. And a few of them wanted me to get rough with them. It never really clicked, though I could see the appeal in a certain light." He gives Eames a moment to think that over before going on. "But then when this started to happen between us last night, it _did_ click. If I wanted to get into my own psyche about it, it probably wouldn't be rocket science. I spend a great percentage of my life looking out for other people, I've got lots of lives in my hands, I'm in a position of control whether I want to be or not, etcetera, and ceding control is some kind of release. The reason doesn't matter. What does matter is that it felt good. Better than good, Eames. I wish I could explain it so that you could do it again, and again. It was nice to trust someone. It was just nice to let go like that. Wasn't it?"_

 _"I – I suppose I can see how you'd feel like that. But I wasn't myself, Arthur."_

 _"The hell you weren't, Eames, that's bullshit. I know how the job holds onto you after it's over. I remember you getting sick from forgeries before, did you think I hadn't noticed it? Maybe other people missed it, but I didn't. But you're still _you_. And you were you last night."_

"I wouldn't--"

"And it's totally fine," Arthur says. "Eames. It's _fine_ to be a top, or dominant or whatever you want to call it. It doesn't have to be all the time. Well, really, if you don't want it, it doesn't have to be _any_ of the time. I'm just telling you that it felt good. Did you like it at all? Any of it? And be honest, because I'm giving you a great deal of information about myself, here."

"You always turn me on, Arthur."

"That's not what I asked you."

Eames sighs, frustrated, and turns onto his back again. "Yes. Yes, Arthur, I liked... I liked holding you down. I liked telling you what to do and the way you did it. I liked you on your knees." He sounds angry about it.

"Well then, see? We like the same thing. Simple."

"Not simple."

"No, not simple, but it's a start."

"I can't do it all the time," Eames says. "And I didn't like hurting you. I grabbed you too hard. I bruised you."

"Well," Arthur concedes, "I guess you shouldn't mark me where anyone can see it." He's thinking about Eames's fingerprints on his jaw, where he can feel bruises blooming, but he doesn't want to say it and make this worse. "Like I said, we'll have to figure out how to do this right, if you want to. We don't have to do it all the time; I know it's draining. But we can, maybe... once in a while, if you want?"

Eames doesn't answer, and Arthur feels like he's going to need a little more than what he's getting. Besides which, he feels that strange loneliness he was reading about during his research. Pressing a little closer to Eames, he moves his lips to his ear, drops his voice to a whisper and says, "Eames, please."

The reaction he wanted is immediate, with Eames turning to him, groaning low in his throat, and pushing him onto his back. There's no way that either of them are up for another round, but Arthur still feels his heart stutter a little, and a desire not quite physical.

"You ruin me, Arthur." Eames grips him by the arms and presses wet kisses to his neck. "You make me want terrible things."

"It's not terrible. Stop judging what we both like. And it's common, what you're feeling; it's called 'top guilt.' I'm supposed to remind you that there's nothing to feel guilty for, because you didn't harm me, you just made me feel good. Also, the adrenaline rush is over, that's why you feel like that."

"What else?" Eames asks, leaning up on his elbow. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Ah. Aftercare. Hang on, I've got a list." Arthur grabs his iPhone and pulls up the page he was just looking at. Eames laughs at him, probably for having a list - Eames always laughs at that - but if Arthur hadn't done some searching, they would still both be floundering in the dark. He checks a few options. "Well, communication is key, you're supposed to talk about it, and we are, so that's good. You can... You could offer me a blanket in case I'm cold."

Eames pulls the blanket up to his chin, knocking the iPhone into his nose.

"Jesus, get off me," Arthur says. "It's too hot."

"You said to."

"Okay, but not now. You can get me a glass of water."

"There's a bottle in the bag beside you."

"Well the point is that you're supposed to get it for me," Arthur says. "In case I can't get it myself."

Eames looks horrified. "Why would you not be able to get it yourself? I would never render you incapable of getting water."

"What if you tied me up, and my arms fell asleep? What then?"

"You would let me tie you up?" Eames asks, breathless.

"Yeah," Arthur says. He stops to think about that scenario: on his back, arms tied, maybe even blindfolded while Eames does whatever he pleases, oh _shit_ , that makes him hotter than it has any right to. "Oh, yeah, I would definitely let you do that."

"Oh, god," Eames groans, and flops down over him, running his hand over Arthur's chest.

"And since we're negotiating terms here, I want you to know what that means. For a man in my position in life to let someone else tie me up, blindfold me..."

"Blindfold you? Oh, fuck, yes."

"And do whatever you wanted to me. I want you to understand what that means. Eames, pay attention." Eames is writhing against his hip, a few short steps away from rutting against him. Arthur might be up for another go in a little while, but this is important.

"Sorry. You'd let me do that, yes."

"Really think about this. There are people who want to kill me. There are people who would tie me up and leave me there for my enemies for a high enough price. What I'm saying to you is that I believe you don't have a price. That if someone said to you, 'I'll give you fifty million dollars if you leave the point man tied to the bed,' you'd shoot them in the dick. This is what I believe."

Eames looks up from Arthur's shoulder, the dawning of realization on his face. Gently, he presses one leg between Arthur's, and braces on his elbow over him. "No, I don't have a price," he says. "I'm not even talking necessarily of love, just to be clear. But honor, if a man such as I can speak of it. You didn't know that Cobb had set higher stakes on the inception job. I truly believe that if you had, you would have laid it all out for us."

"I would have, yes."

"I didn't know that Yusuf had accepted his bribe, for the record. No, you're fair, Arthur. I would never intentionally sell you out, set you up, or put you in harm's way. You are much too valuable and rare in this business."

Eames strokes his hair, gently, over and over again, running his fingers through it. It's exactly what Arthur needs right now. "This was on the list," he says, running his fingers up and down Eames's forearm.

"What?"

"The list I was reading, aftercare. Normally I'm not into it, but it feels really nice."

"Good. I've spent many moments over the years thinking about your ridiculous hair and how I'd like to increase the instances of my hands in it."

"Well let's not get carried away," Arthur says.

"Give me that," Eames says, snatching the iPhone away from him.

The way he's leaning over Arthur as he thumbs through the list presses his warm weight against his chest, so that Arthur is half-pinned by hard muscle and he can feel the soft scratch of chest hair against his ribs. He thinks he could probably be ready again in a few minutes if he really thought about it, but he's still so damned sore and achy.

"Says you need a safeword," Eames says. His voice sounds soft, maybe a little surprised that he's reading this, and giving it such consideration.

"'Stop' ought to do it, I think. Unless we were playing some sort of pretend thing. Then I would tell you, _'Milton'_ or something."

Eames grins down at him and then goes back to the list. "I'm supposed to reassure you."

"I don't require reassurance."

"No?" Eames asks. Tentative at first, then lightly teasing, he mouths at Arthur's jaw, and below his ear. "You wouldn't want to know how well you had done? How good you were for me?"

"When you're whispering at me like that and grinding on me, everything sounds pretty good." Arthur notes that he sounds a little breathless already. His mouth feels dry. "Eames, hand me that water bottle."

Again, Eames has to lean over him to retrieve it from the bag, pressing against him and Arthur can't hold back the groan of appreciation. Holy shit, he really likes being pinned down. This is totally new.

"Shall I help you drink it?"

"Fuck off," Arthur says, but it doesn't sound convincing when he's panting again.

"I ought to spank you for talking to me like that."

Arthur opens the bottle of water and smirks up at him. "We'll talk about it."

"Mmm. First aid for cuts and bruises," Eames reads. "I'd never want to hurt you badly enough for first aid, let's get that clear. I'm not cutting you or burning you."

"Good, I don't want that. I have enough scars and I don't need any more identifying marks."

Eames keeps reading, and brightens as he spots something he likes. "I could give you a bath. Wash your hair. Clean you up."

"Yeah, we could do that."

Then he quirks an eyebrow. "Somehow I don't think you want stuffed animals or coloring books?"

"Jesus Christ," Arthur says, snatching the iPhone away from him and setting it on the desk. "We can make our own list, okay? We set boundaries before. We don't do this on a job; neither of us can get caught off guard in a situation and we can't have it affecting the dreams. And it doesn't carry over when we're not fucking. I'm not your submissive when we work together. You get your own fucking coffee and whatnot."

"Right. And we don't have to do it like this all the time. You'll still be fucking me on some occasions, I hope?"

"Yes."

"Then ' _let us try adventurous work, yet to thy power and mine, not unagreeable_ ,' Arthur."

"Fuck, Eames," Arthur says, and, yes, he's definitely ready now. "You don't even know this but that's what got me, when I came in. Your brain, god. How do you know this whole thing?"

"I have to memorize a lot," Eames says. His hand starts to move down Arthur's stomach again, firm and insistent. "Part of the job. Can memorize nearly anything. Can't do numbers, though." Eames cuts off his laugh with a breathless kiss. "Wait till I get started on Poe." He kisses Arthur's chin. "Shakespeare." His jaw. "Tolkien." His neck. "Star Wars."

"Let's save that for next time," Arthur says, laughing. "The next time we finish a job together or have some free time. I'll show up in your hotel room or whatever, and crawl to you on my hands and knees. With my tie between my teeth, or something."

Eames exhales against his chest like he's had the wind knocked out of him and starts to move down. Arthur really likes where this is going.

Then his iPhone buzzes.

"Fuck," they say in unison. They both know that messages after a job are crucial. Eames rests his head against Arthur's stomach; Arthur grabs the phone off the desk again.

"Ariadne," he says, retrieving her text.

 _Check this,_ , it tells him. There's a link attached, to a news story about Father Abernathy.

Arthur reads it quickly. He doesn't need the details. It instantly kills his desire.

"Abernathy," he says to Eames.

"He's dead," Eames says, somewhere between a question and a statement.

Arthur looks down at him, surprised.

"I saw it in his head. Suicide, right? Complete with a confession letter."

"Seven pages," Arthur confirms. "I'm not sure I understand. Isn't that a big sin for them? Isn't it like the one thing you can't be forgiven for, or something?"

Eames smiles up at him. "Mum didn't get you to church much as a child, Arthur?"

"' _Mum_ ' was lucky if she got me to school on a good day."

Eames sits up, all the lust clearly banished from him, too. Arthur sits back against the headboard and they face each other.

"He didn't think he deserved redemption," Eames says. "And when you look at his many crimes, and the violence of them—which I'm sure you will, when his confession letter is released—I can't say I'm in a position to disagree. He wished to suffer. He told me."

"He actually believed this," Arthur says, trying to get his brain around it. "He believed in this idea of eternal torment, and he chose it for himself."

"He sought me out."

Arthur leans forward and takes Eames's face between his palms, surprising him. "No. Not _you_ , Eames. None of this has anything to do with you."

"' _By his Devilish art to reach the organs of her fancie, and with them forge illusions as he list, phantasms and dreams..._ ' The Devil was a forger, Arthur."

"' _In what shape they choose, bright or obscure, can execute their purposes, and works of love or enmity fulfill._ ' So were the angels."

Eames places his hands over Arthur's, and remains silent for a few seconds, thinking. Then he says, "Usually it takes me a few days, even weeks sometimes to let go of a job. It's why I don't work as often as you do. Tonight though – or last night, really – it was more like hours."

"Maybe you shouldn't be alone," Arthur says, letting go of Eames and shrugging. It's not like it's really his place to tell Eames what's good for him, or to even make suggestions, and it's definitely not his job to offer to help when Eames hasn't asked.

"Maybe I shouldn't," Eames says.

"So we'll try to work together more, if you want. And if you do a tough job by yourself, you know. Give me a call or something. It's worth it for me to keep you on top of your game. The one dreamwalker who'll never have a price for me."

After spending a few seconds just looking at him, Eames moves to lie down again, pulling Arthur along with him.

"Early flight out tomorrow," Arthur says. "California for me."

"Vegas," Eames says. "Come and visit, once you're done seeing Cobb."

"Maybe I will."

Eames pets his hair, strangely more friendly and companionable than romantic or erotic. "Sleep, pet," he says. He tenses once it's out of his mouth. "Oh, I didn't mean 'pet' as in..."

"It's okay," Arthur tells him. "I know. And hey. Maybe in a few weeks you can say it when you put a collar on me." He says it to tease, but the image gets him all stirred up again.

"Jesus," Eames says, tightening his hand in Arthur's hair.

"Not now, though. I'm too tired."

"Yeah."

 _And comfortable,_ Arthur thinks, though it doesn't need saying. He read about this on the internet, too. His research backs all of these feelings up, so he figures it must be right.

It's 2:37 AM, and Arthur finally closes his eyes and sleeps.


	2. Chapter 2

_Last night you were unhinged. You were like some desperate, howling demon. You frightened me. Do it again!_ ~~ Morticia Addams

** ** ** **

 

Eames is not pleased with the Vegas job, and is heartily glad it's over. This one had been a regular, topside forgery, not much of a challenge. Just a couple of legal documents. But he'd had to put up with a twat of a client who had tried to give him attitude—and orders, which he hadn't taken—and then had tried to swindle him out of the last 25% of his cut. Had tried to swindle _him_ , Eames, the one who does the swindling. He might not be good at maths, but he isn't an idiot. Still, the attitude had bothered him more. For someone to hire him and then presume to tell him how to do his job correctly, the nerve.

So it's with lingering irritation and frustration that he's heading back to his hotel, looking forward to having a drink, packing up, and getting the morning flight out before his client realizes that Eames has taken 25% more than he was supposed to.

He's getting out of the taxicab when his cell phone says to him, "Jesus Christ, Eames," in Arthur's exasperated voice. Ah, his Arthur ringtone. He can't even remember the circumstances under which he'd recorded that, but it's always brought a smile to his face so it's been his Arthur ringtone for about seven months now.

Briefly, he flashes to the last time he saw Arthur, a few weeks ago in the hotel room. The Abernathy job. He feels a little flushed when he answers with a "Yes?"

"Don't shoot me when you come in," is all Arthur says before hanging up.

Eames knows the line is disconnected, but he stares at his phone anyway, as if expecting it to give him the answer to the question, ' _What the fuck?'_

He pays the driver and pockets his phone, wondering. Arthur must be in town. In the hotel, even? He must, otherwise why ' _don't shoot me when you come in_ '? Unless he's getting creative with his euphemisms, or is high. Eames walks through the sliding doors of the hotel and takes a moment to imagine Arthur high. That must be highly amusing to see.

Arthur is not in the lobby. He's not in the hotel bar. Eames considers ringing him back, but he can already guess that this is part of Arthur's game, and if he asks him to explain, something will be lost. So, he heads straight for his room. And if his trousers are feeling a bit restrictive by the time he gets to his door, and if his fingers are feeling a little twitchy to touch and grab, then he can hardly be blamed. Arthur is a bloody evil tease.

With his cardkey out, he stops to rethink. Maybe Arthur isn't here for a sexy visit. Maybe he needs help. Or he's got work lined up. In which case, Eames might turn him down. He's still not in the mood for the dream thing just yet. Eames looks down at the state of his trousers and tries to calm himself. It wouldn't do to walk in looking like a sex fiend if Arthur's come to talk business. Arthur will be sitting on the chair by the little table, in his suit with the jacket off, laptop open and frowning in concentration at the screen. Best play it straight. Eames opens the door.

** ** ** **

Arthur is not at the table with his laptop. He is in a suit, though. Mostly. Eames stops in the doorway for a second, before regaining his senses and quickly closing the door behind him, god forbid someone should walk by and see Arthur as he is now. Not naked, not on the bed, but still unspeakably filthy, even though he hasn't done or said anything yet.

Arthur is on his knees, with his belt unbuckled but still on. His shirt is buttoned to the top, but his tie is off. He is, in fact, holding it in his teeth. His hands are linked behind his back. His hair, a bit on the long side for him, hangs loose around his face in damp waves as if he's just come from a shower. He's smiling around the tie, but his eyes are careful, gauging Eames's reaction to him. The question, unspoken, is, ' _Is this all right, now?_ '

Eames swallows hard. He might have expected Arthur to be walking around naked and shameless (it wouldn't be the first time,) but he hadn't expected anything like this.

"Right," Eames says. "Yes, that's... that's quite something."

Arthur hastens to take the tie out of his mouth. Suddenly he's all business. "If this is a bad time, tell me now before I do something stupid."

"No, it's fine, it's... that would be fine." For once, Eames is at a loss.

Arthur looks unsure, gripping the limp material of his tie in his hand, wound around slim, tense fingers. "Because I can..."

"No," Eames orders. He feels it creep up his spine in an unexpected way: the straightness, the squaring of his shoulders. The change in his own voice. The thrill that runs up his arms and then, strangely, settles him. "No, stay as you are, Arthur. Eyes down."

There's a moment where Arthur suppresses a grin more devilish than anything Eames could ever forge, then he lowers his gaze to the carpet and schools his features into something more somber. Or at least he tries to. The child-soft bow of his mouth still curves up in a badly hidden smirk.

Eames walks slowly towards him. He stops when he's right in front, just to try to unsettle him, to make him want to look up. Arthur doesn't. Eames circles around him in measured steps, looking him over. He knows exactly what Arthur looks like from all angles, but he does this to make him squirm a bit. Arthur only jumps a little when Eames threads his fingers through his hair and over his scalp, petting, petting, and petting. Arthur's hair is soft and for a ridiculous moment, Eames doesn't want to play this game. For an even more ridiculous moment, he doesn't even want to fuck him – which is preposterous – he just sort of wants to lie him back and kiss and stroke him for a few hours. He actually feels his insides go warm and weak with some unnamable feeling.

"If you want me to stop at any time," Eames says, tilting Arthur's face up to look at him.

"I'll say stop," Arthur answers. His eyes are sharp, focused, and businesslike. There's the Arthur he knows.

"But if it's a role or something...?"

"I'm not playing a role," Arthur says, with his typical straightforwardness.

"Right." Eames keeps his fingers wound in Arthur's hair and feels him nod his head toward something sitting beside the hotel table.

"I brought a bag of stuff," Arthur says. He doesn't even try to blink away the mischief in his eyes, nor does he break eye-contact. "If you wanted to, I don't know. Use anything."

A thrill runs through him, because, Christ, what has Arthur thought up now? He feels a bit nervous because he thinks it's possible that Arthur is about to out-pervert him.

"Stay," he orders Arthur, and goes to retrieve the bag.

It's a paper bag, large and plain on the outside, and lurid, fleshy pink on the inside. In it are boxes, items wrapped in paper like mysteries. Eames brings it to the bed and sits down.

Without looking up, Arthur asks, "May I..." He takes a second to think about how to phrase whatever it is he's asking.

"Yes," Eames says, without knowing what Arthur wants. The answer is probably always going to be yes anyway, he figures.

Arthur comes to him on his knees and sits beside his legs. "I'm not sure I can explain everything in there, but. I just found this store and I thought I'd... You know."

Eames pulls out the receipt before anything else. "Thought you'd drop 1735 American dollars on sex toys?" he asks, gaping.

"Yeah, something like that."

Eames takes out the first item, which is a typical vibrator. All right, so just about everyone's got a few of those lying around. He looks at Arthur, who meets his eyes easily, steady, without shame.

Eames goes back to the bag and retrieves other basic necessities and some frivolities, such as lube, a few flavored tubes as well, (Arthur chose a raspberry one and a mint one, what the fuck,) as well as a bottle or two of tingling and warming ones. Eames has no idea why; they've never needed to go in for fancy stuff like that before. It's starting to look as if Arthur had just grabbed anything he could get his hands on in a rush.

Next, from amid a mass of sparkly paper, he pulls a flogger. A metal pinwheel with tiny, sharp teeth. A ball-gag. A small, coiled whip. Leather wrist-cuffs with a long chain. A crop. And at the bottom, a heavy case that Eames pulls out with frank trepidation. "VIOLET WAND" the box informs him, in big, bright letters. Eames looks again at the flogger. It's made of some metallic material. He feels his own jaw drop.

He looks again at Arthur, whose gaze finally wavers. "I know we don't have all the time in the world, so I just grabbed a bunch of things."

"I don't even know how to use this," Eames says, opening the violet wand box cautiously. He sees as he does so that it's already been opened.

"I do," Arthur says. "I looked it up. And I read the instruction book."

The instruction book, Eames notes, is thicker than any of the ones that have come with any computer, television, DVD player or any other gadget he can think of. He flips through the pages. There are diagrams of what goes where. "This has 210 pages," he says.

"Technically it does," Arthur says, "but only the first seventy are in English. Um, look. May I?" He reaches out for the wand and all its attachments.

 _Christ, Arthur and his gadgets,_ Eames thinks, handing it to him.

"See, you can just sort of touch me with it, which is okay. I already tested it. But you can hook it up to yourself and turn yourself into a conductor. Every part of your body will shoot sparks."

He thinks about that for a second. Putting electrified hands on Arthur. Kissing him with electric lips. Sucking... _Oh god, this is insane._

"Like I said, we don't have to do everything tonight. It's up to you. Where we start. Where we end. What happens in between."

"I rather think you've got a say in the matter."

"I already said yes," Arthur says. "This is my 'yes.' All of it."

"And if you need something," Eames clarifies, "you'll ask for it."

"Of course."

He feels the slow grin pulling at his mouth, almost alien. Unlike himself. It's heady and a little frightening, how he feels. "And if I decide to," he says, "I'll let you have it."

Arthur's breathing catches a little on the inhale. He nods, and his gaze goes back to the carpet.

"Right, then," Eames says, sweeping the toys aside and standing up. He goes over to the large chair and sits down, splaying his legs, leaning back and getting comfortable. Arthur remains by the bed, a meter or so away. If he's got Arthur like this for a few hours, be might as well do his damnedest to play out the images that flit through his mind every so often. He'd be stupid to turn it down.

"Face me on your knees," Eames says. "But stay where you are, so I can see you."

Arthur turns to face him.

"Eyes up here," Eames says. He knows very well what his voice sounds like when he's giving orders and not fucking around. He's seen the intimidation. He is well aware of what he looks and sounds like. Arthur's eyes, however, aren't meek or afraid or intimidated. Just heavy-lidded, dark with lust. He likes those eyes, always has, with their short lashes, the way they curve down toward his cheekbones, even the dark crescents underneath when Arthur is tired. They're sex-eyes, even when he's not trying. Arthur is some strange combination of pretty and utterly masculine. Eames wants to leave marks along the clean, straight line of his jaw. He wants to devour him and he's sure it shows in his own eyes, sure it comes through in his voice.

"Put the tie down," Eames says. "Then undo the first three buttons of your shirt."

Arthur almost smirks at that, _almost_ , but stops himself. He doesn't break eye contact as he folds the tie (that only makes Eames want to ruin it later,) places it on the bed, and moves his hands to the top of his pinstripe shirt with his usual businesslike brusqueness.

"Slowly," Eames tells him.

Arthur's fingers halt, and then slow down as he undoes the top button. Then the next, and then the next. He splays the collar, exposing the pale V of his throat and clavicles. Just as slowly, he lets his hands drop.

"Undo your trousers," Eames says. He doesn't move from his reclining position, doesn't even twitch a muscle. He's good at keeping still. It unnerves people.

Now he can see Arthur's breathing speed up, and the flush rise from the bare spot of his chest to his throat. No one sex-flushes like Arthur. It's so obvious on him. The sound of his belt falling seems loud in the quiet room, the flies of his trousers and the shuffling of fabric as he pushes it down his hips sound obscene, and they haven't even started yet.

"Touch yourself," Eames says. "And keep your eyes up here."

Arthur again does as he's told. Eames doesn't have to watch his hand to know his movements, how slowly he's going, what his fingers look like. He knows those things. It's much more interesting at this point to watch the emotions play out on his features, the dark of his eyes. How his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. The way he refuses to break eye contact, just as he's been ordered.

"Very nice, Arthur," Eames says.

It's subtle, the way something visibly releases in Arthur's chest and the set of his shoulders, at Eames's approval. It sends a thrill of power through him. He lets it go on for a minute or so, lets Arthur do whatever he likes to himself while Eames watches.

"That's enough for now," Eames says, standing up.

"Eames," Arthur says, his voice soft. "Umm, before we go on, is there something you want me to call you aside from Eames? 'Sir' or something?"

He considers it for a second, as he comes to stand over Arthur again, close enough to touch, but not touching. 'Sir' reminds him too much of the military. He thinks 'Master' for a second, but the idea of Arthur calling anyone 'master' is so preposterous it almost takes him out of the fantasy. Arthur calls him 'Mr. Eames' when he's being a snarky bitch or when he's teasing him, so that doesn't work, either.

"No," he says, schooling his voice to the low, authoritative one he's mastered over the years. "No, Arthur, using my name is fine. Just so long as you do so only when asking me sweetly for something, or when I speak to you first. Clear?"

"Yes," Arthur says.

"Good." Eames takes the tie from where Arthur had folded it neatly on the bed. He twines it around his fingers, glancing again at the array of expensive toys. Really, all Eames wants is Arthur. But his eyes keep drifting back to that little box with the electric wand inside, the bulb of it sleek and phallic. _Christ,_ he thinks, _I want to touch him with that._

But not yet. He's got to build up to that, in preparing Arthur and in his own courage. It's not going to be easy to turn that thing on. And if he's going to use it without flinching, he's got to be sure of his own footing first. That includes taking Arthur apart a lot more than he already is.

He loops the tie around Arthur's throat and twists it in his hand, leaving enough of a gap at the front so that he's not constricting, just controlling. With his other hand he takes off his own belt and undoes his trousers. He jerks on Arthur's tie, pulling his face into his crotch and sending him off balance. Arthur flails for a second and catches himself on Eames's thighs.

He doesn't get directly to work, instead just pressing his face against Eames's pants, his breath hot and fast. Arthur rubs against him like a cat, almost reverent. Eames struggles to remain quiet and impassive. The last time they'd played a game like this, he hadn't had to pretend. As out of control over himself as he'd been, strangely, he had been _in_ control. He sees that now.

He needs to find that balance again.

"Can I?" Arthur asks, mouthing against him, tugging the hem of his pants down.

Eames wants to tell him _Fuck, yes, please do it,_ but he refrains. With a small chuckle he says, "If you ask nicely."

Arthur presses closer, dragging his open mouth along the outside of Eames's pants. "May I _please_ , Eames?"

He twists the tie a little tighter and pets Arthur's hair fondly. "Yes, go on, Arthur."

"Thank you," Arthur says.

Jesus, he's never been thanked for his cock before. Yet Arthur takes to it like a starving man, with none of his normal reserve, and in fact, none of his normal technique. It's messy, frantic, and needy. A sudden calm descends over Eames, something that lies outside of his lust, of having Arthur's mouth on him. Something fond and relaxed.

"Easy, pet," he soothes, cradling the back of Arthur's head. "Slower."

Arthur glances up briefly. His eyes are glazed, lips red and wet, face flushed. He blinks in acknowledgment, lowers his eyes, and slows down.

It's so good. It's so sweet, so hot and just the right amount of movement and suction, Eames has to fight not to start talking. Eventually he has to fight not to have his legs go out from beneath him, _fuck_ , Arthur is so bloody good at this. He considers putting a stop to it but then glances at the clock. They've got a few hours. He could go twice. He could make Arthur wait, oh god, what an idea, to make him wait, to make him hold back. He could release his own tension and then lazily play with Arthur for hours.

"You'll let me come in your mouth, won't you," he says. "Let me come in your mouth and then strip you bare while I'm sated and you're still aching for it, fuck, Arthur, you'd let me do that."

Arthur just makes a needy sound and a motion that feels like a nod. He doubles his efforts though, and then Eames is bracing on his shoulders, wishing he'd had the forethought to lean against something or to sit down or anything.

Arthur, bless him, swallows. And swallows. And then leans against his hip, panting.

Eames turns to sit down on the bed, drained of energy for the moment. He's still gripping the tie around Arthur's neck and pulls him along so that Arthur has no choice but to follow his movement, his head now between Eames's thighs.

Eames takes a minute to catch his breath, absently petting Arthur's hair, which clearly he can't get enough of doing. Arthur doesn't seem to mind.

"I am going to make you wait," Eames says, after he's caught his breath enough to sound calm and in control. "You'll ask no questions and you'll make no demands or suggestions. If you need to stop, or you need a moment, tell me. Everything else, you give up to me. You'll take exactly what I give you and nothing more. Clear?"

Arthur looks up at him, his mouth parted, eyes gleaming, face damp and flushed. "Yeah," he says.

"That means you won't come until I tell you that you may. If you do, the game is over."

Arthur swallows hard, starts to say something, and then changes his mind. "Okay, yeah."

"Up," Eames says, standing himself.

As clearly as if it were yesterday, he remembers throwing Arthur onto the bed last time. Literally lifting him and throwing him. More, he remembers how much that turned Arthur on. Being tossed around, being pinned, being crushed against the bed. He's not sure if he's got the adrenaline strength he had last time to bodily lift and throw him again, but he's got the element of surprise at least.

He hooks his arm around Arthur's waist, getting a shocked yelp out of him, and gets him a decent amount off the floor before tossing him, again, onto the bed. Not quite as far or as hard as the last time, but enough to surprise him. The last time, he'd ripped Arthur's clothes off and left his own on. Time to switch it up.

"Trousers all the way off," he orders. "Shirt, too. Leave the tie."

Arthur's smile is far too confident at this stage. Which is nice, Eames likes him like this, but he also knows it's not what Arthur came for. He showed up on his knees asking to be dominated and taken to pieces. _Fuck_ , if it was physically possible for him to get hard again right now...

Arthur is, though. Achingly so, as he hurries to wriggle out of his trousers and toss them aside carelessly.

"Slow down," he orders again. He wonders, truly wonders, how long Arthur can hold out. Watches his fingers undo the rest of his shirt buttons, slowly like he asked, but too steady.

Before he can get the shirt off, Eames kneels on the bed, grabs him by the open lapels and hauls him up so that Arthur is dangling in his grip, ass and thighs lifted completely off the bed. This wrenches an audible sigh out of Arthur, almost a moan. His chin is tilted up as if he's considering letting his head fall back and offering his throat. Arthur is not as light as he looks; the seams of his shirt strain against his weight. Eames is having no such struggle, aware of his own strength.

"I could break you in half," Eames whispers, before biting at his ear, moving down his neck with possessive, sucking kisses. He fastens his teeth over Arthur's jugular, with enough pressure to leave a mark – god, he feels like a fucking animal but he can't deny that it feels good to let go like this.

Arthur nods his assent but remains quiet.

He kisses and bites down his chest, making Arthur pant for it but not giving him anything more yet. "I could split you in two. I could crush you." He reaches down between Arthur's legs, tugs just hard enough, smearing wetness all over his hand. Then lets go of his shirt and drops him back to the bed. "Or I could just make you lie there and wait, until you're crying for it."

Arthur reaches up to scrub the back of his hand over his own lips and wipe the sweat from his eyes. He takes a few steadying breaths, the way he does when his job gets too stressful and he's afraid the adrenaline is going to ruin his work.

Eames looks over the array of toys that he'd spread out over the bed. They don't look quite so intimidating anymore. He reaches for the basics, first: bottles of the kinky, flavored slick, and the restraints. He hears Arthur hum in approval when he toys with the cuffs, undoing them.

"Like these, do you?" he says. "Like not being able to move? Not being able to grab onto anything, or jerk yourself off? Being stretched out so I can touch you anywhere? With anything?" He spares him a cursory glance. "You can answer."

"Yes."

"Shirt off," Eames orders, and Arthur is quick to comply, flinging it to the floor with his trousers.

Eames presses him flat against the bed and fits the cuffs over his wrists. Arthur's hands close, stretch open, and close into fists again as Eames watches the tendons in his wrists move, the ropy muscles of his forearms. Christ, tying Arthur down is a whole new world. The headboard is a shitty, boring wooden one. Damn it.

But getting creative is what Eames does best. He slides his arms under Arthur's back, slick with sweat already, and arranges him so he's diagonal across the bed. Arthur leans up to try to kiss him, mouth urgent and wanting, reaching for him. He says nothing, though. Eames gives him a little in return, licking his open mouth, rubbing on him a little. Not enough to really get him going. Then he jerks Arthur's arms over his head and loops the long chain to the lamp that is nailed to the bedside drawer. Good enough.

He carefully eyes that electric wand in the box, all the complicated attachments. It's the one thing that Arthur had really brought to his attention; the rest seems to be filler. But he can't just turn it on and start zapping him; he doesn't know what the fuck he's doing. Eames has been on the unfortunate side of a cattle prod (fucking amateur interrogators) and the last thing he wants is to hurt Arthur the same way. He's pretty sure that he personally would not feel happy about getting held down and shocked again – once was enough for him. But apparently Arthur has contextualized this in some way that Eames can understand, if not relate to.

In the end it doesn't matter. It's what Arthur wants. It's just that Eames is not ready to go there yet.

So instead, he grabs the vibrator. Arthur vocalizes on the exhale and tenses all his muscles when Eames turns it on. Watches him raptly for a few seconds while he casts around for the bottle of slick he'd grabbed. Arthur watching him searching like a twat who can't keep control of things – this will never do. So he grabs what is within his reach—Arthur's tie—and cradles the back of Arthur's head.

"Oh," Arthur says softly. He clearly hadn't expected this.

Eames drapes the thickest part over his eyes, smooths down the back of his hair, and ties it at the back. Then he rests Arthur's head back down and goes back to looking for the bottle, leaving the vibrator buzzing on the bed. It sends little vibrations through the duvet, which he can feel through his knees and calves, sort of delicious.

Arthur must feel them too: he draws his knees up, feet planted on the bed, and his thighs fall slightly apart. _Christ_ , Eames thinks, as his own body makes a valiant effort to be ready to fuck again, and soon.

Finally he grabs the bottle. Mint. He pops it open and pulls the foil back, dipping a little on his fingers. Without Arthur watching him, he can drop the mask for a few seconds. He tastes it. It's not bad, really; a little too synthetic though. Sort of like chewing gum with plastic in it.

But he doesn't use it yet. Instead he takes a minute or so to just tease Arthur a little. He runs the toy over his chest, letting it vibrate against his ribs, his sternum, his belly. Down through the thatch of hair, pressing a little. Arthur makes an aborted sound of desperation, twitching when Eames drags it down the crease of his thigh before pulling it back for a moment, to slick it up. Arthur must hear the sound of that. His arms go tight against the restraint. He stops pulling before he yanks the lamp out of its fixture, thankfully.

"Easy," Eames says, his voice clipped instead of soothing.

He slips his hand between Arthur's thighs, underneath, wet fingers pressing in gentle and slow, the other hand holding onto the buzzing toy.

Arthur tries to be quiet, to his credit, but little "ah, ah," sounds escape his lips anyway. Eames thinks he can forgive that, what he's doing to him now. Finding all of the right places, as careful and as knowledgeable as he does try to be. He knows, by now, how Arthur likes to be touched, inside and out. And then he wonders, traitorously, if anyone else knows as well as he does. He likes to think no one does.

When the time is right, he eases the toy into Arthur, who takes it biting his lips raw, arching his back. Under the makeshift blindfold, his eyes must be rolling back into his head.

He angles the toy upwards, getting a cry from Arthur along with a full-body upwards jerk.

"There, now," Eames says, patting his thigh. He crawls over Arthur's straining body on his hands and knees. Then braces over him, hands on either side of his shoulders, knees across his hips, and leans down so his lips are brushing Arthur's. He knows how he needs to sound: soft and deadly, long vowels, short consonants, hissing sibilants. "You had better start to think some very unappealing thoughts," he says. "If I come back and find you've made a mess of yourself, my love..." He pauses here to rub his mouth over Arthur's, who instantly tries to lean up, lips wide open, for any kind of lingering contact. "Then I will be very disappointed," Eames finishes, without granting him the kiss he's yearning for.

Cruel, he knows. But just the thing.

He slides off of him quickly, quietly. Arthur moves as if he's trying to look around, trying his damnedest not to break his silence and ask what Eames is doing.

What Eames is doing is grabbing the box with the wand, and the instruction booklet.

"I'll be a few moments in the shower, Arthur," he says. "Behave yourself, and mind what I told you."

A delayed reaction nod is all he gets. Before he goes into the bathroom, he turns in the doorway and looks at him.

 _Arthur,_ he thinks, at once fond and amazed. _Point man. Pioneer. Occasional annoying twat. Specificity, odds and laws of averages. Intel, recon. Glock in a holster, knife in an ankle strap._

 _Panting, sweating, trying valiantly not to move and set himself off._

Eames shakes his head to clear it, and grabs his reading glasses off the table. This instruction booklet has fucking diagrams.

** ** ** **

He takes a quick shower, because he's actually been dying for one. After that, he sits down with the instruction booklet, wipes the steam off his glasses, and starts reading. It's about five minutes before he's got a basic enough understanding of this Violet Wand thing that he thinks he won't electrocute the both of them. He can run a PASIV, so this shouldn't be too difficult after all. He's got everything assembled in their various sockets and such, and is ready to roll.

He tests it on himself. Lower settings and close contact emit warmth and tingling. Distance gives greater sensation. Higher settings – well, maybe they'll work up to that.

Actually putting it on Arthur... he thinks he can do this. He knows how to electrify himself, too, so that his touch will shock his "bottom partner," as the instructions say. He tries out the electrode and it zaps him a little when he puts it on. It's not the most pleasant feeling, but he reminds himself that he's in control of it. And it's what Arthur wants. This makes it not only more bearable, but somewhat appealing too.

He leaves the bathroom and takes a second just to breathe. The room smells like sex, like sweat, and like Arthur. Not aftershave or expensive cologne or hair gel – just the familiar scent of his skin, his body. It might be the first time that Eames has actually recognized that, and now he thinks he'll probably know it anywhere, anytime.

Then he takes a look at Arthur, and hastens to put the kit down and go to him.

Arthur is totally quiet, and breathing deeply, slowly, the way Eames has seen him do when a job goes wrong. In through the nose, out through the mouth. It's almost meditative. He's not as hard as he was before either.

Concerned that he's in pain (the unwanted kind,) Eames lays a gentle hand on his chest and says his name.

Arthur sucks in a breath and comes alive like a current has gone through him, instantly hard again, arching up and calling, "Eames, Eames..."

"All right," Eames tells him, reaching behind his head to unknot the blindfold.

"I need... Eames can you..."

"Hang on," Eames says, hurrying to move the tie. Arthur's eyes are wild and out of focus, closing against the light. Slowly, Eames reaches down and shuts off the toy, easing it out gently.

Arthur sucks a breath in through his teeth and twists in his bindings. "Can I... can we stop for a second, my hands, I need..."

"Yes, yes of course," Eames tells him, keeping the panic out of his voice as he reaches for the cuffs to undo them.

With his arms free, Arthur flexes his hands, scrubs at his face and tries to shake himself clear. Staring mindlessly at the ceiling, he reaches one hand out and grips Eames by the arm, squeezing tight.

"Arthur," Eames begins, about to ask if he's quite all right. But Arthur just pulls him down on top of him, kissing his neck, his mouth, anything he can reach. He tries to pull Eames's other hand down between his legs.

Eames pulls that hand away and instead strokes it down his side, soothing, again and again.

"You're all right," he tells him, as Arthur writhes under him, frustrated out of his mind. "You did so well. You're doing well. Hush."

It takes Arthur a few minutes to calm. Eames kisses him, murmuring praises.

"We can stop," he says, when he's finally got Arthur's attention. "We can stop for tonight if you want. I'll suck you off. We'll go to sleep." He reaches down, strokes Arthur a few times.

"' _What hath night to do with sleep?_ '" Arthur murmurs. Then he pulls back and looks up at him. "No," he says, eyes serious, once again sharp and aware. "I'm okay. I just needed my arms back for a second. Seriously. We can continue. I'm good."

So typical of Arthur, Eames thinks: to regain all of his faculties and become perfectly coherent when he needs to be. He's seen Arthur do the same exact thing bleeding from a bullet wound to his arm, topside.

It hits Eames again, all at once: Arthur isn't losing control. Arthur is _ceding_ control. Eames hasn't taken anything from him; Arthur's handed it over.

It's Eames's turn to need a few steadying breaths. "Yeah, okay," he says. But instead of grabbing his arms to bind him up again, Eames just kisses him. Arthur kisses back, slow and languid. They remain like that for a few minutes, with Eames braced on his arm over him, snogging like teenagers. It takes him a few seconds before he realizes that he's stroking his thumb over Arthur's temple over and over again as he kisses him. Arthur's hand rests on his wrist, squeezing gently. Eames doesn't know quite how they got here from where they were.

Arthur breaks the kiss, going a little unfocused for a second as he sighs. "Can we..." he begins. Stops to clear his throat, flushing a little. "You can go back to it now. Rough me up a little."

Eames gets up on his knees then, pulling Arthur up by the arms only to twist him around and shove him back down, this time face down.

"' _Evil,_ '" he says – and now he feels it, again, cresting inside of him - "' _be thou my good.'_ "

Arthur gets up on all fours, and Eames swats him, hard, on the ass. Arthur has the audacity to laugh at him over his shoulder. That will never do. So he reaches for the flogger and swats him with that, too. Arthur laughs again, because the mylar flogger, though heavy and lush, is mostly a useless piece of shit without the electricity it's supposed to be used with.

Eames reaches for the electrode attachment. "Don't think you can get away with that," he says, hitting the switch that turns it on. He tucks the body contact against his own skin, as per the instructions. It shocks him, but he had expected it this time, and doesn't flinch. Then he swings again.

The mylar wraps around Arthur's hip, clinging, sparking. The zapping sound surprises even Eames. Arthur looks shocked, in every sense of the word.

His grip loosens on the handle for a moment, and it zings his palm unexpectedly. Without betraying this fact to Arthur, Eames tightens his grip on it and keeps it tight. "Thought you tried this already?" he asks.

"The wand, not that thing. I didn't whip myself. I don't do self flagellation. I'm not..."

Eames shuts him up with another swat, before dragging the many tails up Arthur's back, down over his ass, and over the backs of his thighs.

The scent of ozone fills the room.

Eames takes a swipe at the back of Arthur's neck, gentle. Harder between his shoulder blades. Arthur whispers "Yes" almost inaudibly, so Eames gives it to him harder. The next strike marks him - clean, electric-blue arcs leaving a series of welts on his back. Eames flinches when he sees them, but by all appearances, Arthur hasn't even felt it.

"God, again," Arthur says, before remembering that he's not supposed to make demands. His head drops, and Eames doesn't need to see his face to know that it's in shame.

Beginning to suspect that Arthur is dangerously awash in endorphins, the next the next time he swings, it's a lot lighter.

Still, Arthur is panting again by the time Eames is down to his lower back, where the sweat is starting to gleam on the fine hair there. Here's another thing that always fascinates him, the downy hair at the small of Arthur's back. He's so ridiculously pretty in some instances, but so unmistakably masculine. Eames can't help himself. He leans down to lick the sweat from that soft patch of hair.

He hears the spark before his tongue makes contact, and Arthur bucks as if he's been hit again.

 _Holy shit,_ Eames thinks. _My tongue is electric._ He'd forgotten about that detail. His tongue tingles with it.

He does it again. It doesn't work as well when he lays his tongue against Arthur's skin; it seems more intense when he's about an inch away.

Experimenting a little, he nips gently at the fleshy part of Arthur's ass, not making contact with anything but his teeth.

"Jesus Christ," Arthur says, breathy and high.

Eames flips him over onto his back, rough and crude. Without giving it a second thought, he raises the voltage. Again he braces over Arthur. "' _The collision of two bodies grind the air attrite to fire,_ '" he says, leaning close. Electricity hangs thick between them, in the most literal sense. The hair on Arthur's body is drawn up to him.

He drags his fingers over Arthur's ribs, the lightest of touches. When he leans down to barely touch the tip of his tongue to a nipple, Arthur's voice goes about a half-step higher.

"I expect you know where I'm going with this," Eames says, brushing his lips so lightly against Arthur's skin. "Stop me now, or not at all."

"Please, please," Arthur says. His face is the picture of torment, hands clawing at the sheets, legs falling open in invitation. Clearly he means _please go on_ and not _please stop._

Eames continues moving down Arthur's body, holding the lightest of contact, sparks darting between them. He knows he can't do this for much longer because his tongue is starting to lose sensation, and he doesn't want to sound like an idiot when he talks.

That's all right, though. He's nowhere near ready to bring Arthur off yet, so he can, in fact, just mouth at him for a few minutes and then leave him twisting and begging for it again. Which is exactly what he proceeds to do.

Arthur is as hard and desperate as he's ever been; he's probably been in a state like this for a half an hour or more. Not unheard of, but then Eames has already gotten him to the edge at least twice tonight before reeling him back in. It must hurt, he muses, as he swallows Arthur down gently – then he pulls back, because it's not direct contact, but rather near-contact that works best with the electricity. He's got to admit, it's a struggle for him, too, because he does so love the taste of Arthur, the feel of him heavy in his mouth, hot skin on his tongue. Instead, he laps at him gently, sometimes leaving a few centimeters or space between them, letting the sparks fly.

Arthur twitches, tries to thrust up, tries to pull away like he can't decide, like both options pain him.

Eames easily slips electrified fingers inside of him, seeking out that bundle of nerves and Arthur says, "Please, I can't."

"You can," Eames says against his hip. "You'll wait until I tell you to. Not a second before, Arthur." Twisting his fingers and pressing upwards.

Arthur's words degenerate into half-words and then just noises that no longer resemble any language Eames has ever heard. His hair stands on end and the sweat on his body smells like rain and thunder. And, ridiculously, like mint. _Christ, I do love you_ , is what Eames nearly says, followed by _you crazy bastard_ , but he holds it back because it's not necessary and could only break down what they've built tonight.

Arthur gasps himself hoarse like a dying man, winding tighter and tighter, every muscle in his body taut and trembling, strung out and thrumming. When he gets too close, starts to crest again, Eames slips away from him.

Arthur takes a deep breath again, or tries to: in through the nose and out through the mouth. But he's trembling all over and can't seem to get that full breath, can't seem to stop vocalizing.

Eames puts down the electrode and touches him gently, but firmly; palms stroking his thighs, his sides.

"All right," he says, keeping his own breathing even. "Rest. Take a moment. Open your eyes."

Arthur does, looking up at him.

"Breathe."

Arthur breathes along with him.

"Well done," Eames tells him, thumbs drawing circles on his hips. "I knew you could take it. Knew you'd hold out." He lifts Arthur's leg and kisses the inside of his knee, bites at his calf a bit. "But of course, we're not finished, sweet boy. You know that."

Arthur closes his eyes tight and nods.

"And you know I'm not ready to let you come. It'll be a while."

Another pained nod.

"How's it feel?" Eames asks.

"Overwhelming," is Arthur's immediate answer.

"Excellent."

He picks up the wand, this time not connecting the electrode to himself, and attaches the easiest part, the globe. Supposedly it's the best for beginners. It looks fairly phallic. He'd touched it to himself a few times in the bathroom, testing its strength. Erring on the side of caution, he lowers the output and switches it on again.

The crackling again fills the entire room, and the wand bathes Arthur's skin in a violet glow, accenting the dips and ridges of his muscles. Eames slips a hand behind Arthur's head, grips his hair, and pulls him up.

"Suck," he says, holding the buzzing globe to Arthur's lips.

With some trepidation, Arthur opens his mouth and slowly sticks out his tongue. He keeps his eyes on Eames, trembling a little, but so trusting that Eames almost second-guesses this.

Then Arthur gently laps at the bulb, the sound of contact loud in the room, nearly drowning out his gasp. Sweat has long since gathered at his hairline and runs freely down his temples, down his neck. His eyes are watering, and it looks enough like tears that Eames only lets this go on for a few seconds before moving the wand away from his mouth and down his throat.

Arthur's lips and tongue are red with the stimulation. Eames pulls him up further and kisses him, sucking the ozone from his mouth. He can feel the low current from where he's still pressing the wand against Arthur's shoulder now.

Arthur falls back against the pillows when Eames releases him. He jumps a little every time the wand touches him. Eames turns it up a notch, giving him a little more as he hovers it down his ribs, down his belly – following the same path he made with the vibrator earlier.

"My Arthur," he says, full of affection laced with regret. "The things I ask you to suffer for me. Yet you love it."

Arthur doesn't answer. Eames pulls the toy away, and then taps him with it, a stinging zap to his inner thigh.

"Yes," Arthur says.

"Yes what?" He presses it a little higher.

"Yes, I love it. _Eames_." He inches up on the bed a little, his voice sounding slightly panicked. He still doesn't ask him to stop, though.

"So I had gathered," Eames says. "I should let you come, shouldn't I?"

"Please, yes."

"I will. Just not yet."

"I don't know if I can wait." The admission sounds like it was dragged out of him, full of shame.

 _'To disobedience fallen'_ , Arthur? _'And so from Heaven to deepest hell._ '" He lifts Arthur's leg and touches the wand to the crease of his thigh. Spreads his legs a little further apart and teases over the short, dark hair at the apex of his thighs, making it rise to the static.

Arthur is heaving for breath now, nearly hyperventilating, gripping the pillow behind him in sweaty hands. Eames would swear he's about to ask him to stop, or to go slower. As far as he's concerned, Arthur shouldn't have to ask. And unless Eames miscalculates—so easy to do in this situation—he doesn't want to let it go that far.

"Then shall I temper justice with mercy, my love." He switches off the wand and tosses it aside. He was getting tired of it anyway, just touching him with a toy and not his hands.

Arthur releases a long sigh as the muscles in his stomach and legs relax.

"I'm still not going to let you come yet, though."

Arthur takes a shaky breath, but nods.

"You're filthy, you know," Eames tells him. "Soaking wet, all over yourself. I'll clean you up. You had better appreciate my kindness." He moves down, on his knees, hooking one of Arthur's knees over his shoulder. Arthur's head falls back against the pillow and Eames tells him, "No, no. You must watch. I know you like my mouth on you. You should see everything I'm doing. Do try to pay attention."

Arthur props himself on his elbows, eyes wide.

Eames takes his time, tonguing lightly at the wetness on his belly before lapping at the head of his cock, as gently as he can. No suction, and only the lightest of friction. God he loves it down here, he could spend hours between Arthur's thighs. He loves the taste of him, the heat. And he can't deny such a peculiar affection he feels. Beautiful, naked, ridiculous Arthur. He smiles up at him as he tongues, kisses and sucks with infinite care.

Arthur is alternately biting his bottom lip and darting his tongue out to lick the top one. Eames knows that sign; it means he's getting close.

"Not yet," he growls, knowing that using his voice like that on Arthur is only going to make him want it more.

"Please," Arthur says. "It's too much."

"Pity," Eames tells him, sitting back on his knees.

Arthur tries to appeal to him with his eyes, but Eames only presses his palm to Arthur's forehead and pushes him back down against the pillow. He holds him there as he crawls up, preventing him from looking away. Arthur is panting into his mouth, still tasting slightly of ozone, and looking as if he's trying to form some pleas.

"You need it like this," Eames tells him. "You need to be held down, crushed while you're being fucked."

"Yes," Arthur says, unable to nod with Eames's hand still on his forehead.

"You need to be tied down and teased, ordered around like a pet and told what to do. When to come."

"Yeah," Arthur says in a whisper.

He lifts Arthur's hips and presses forward, entering him with no warning. Arthur cries out in a choked-off gasp, which turns into a shaky moan.

"This is what you need," Eames says, moving slow, but hard, maybe just on the edge of too hard. Arthur has to brace his hands against the headboard or risk being shoved into it. "Tell me," Eames demands.

"This, this," Arthur pants. "I need it. Please, Eames."

"You can wait." He angles his hips, pressing upwards on every stroke, and Arthur goes limp in his arms, eyes rolled back. Eames slides both arms under his back, holds onto him and does all the work.

And it's so good, so hot and sweet, he drops his head against Arthur's stomach, feeling each motion, each shudder and moan, the ripple of his muscles. He thinks, ecstatically, that he could fuck Arthur for the rest of his life and be happy. And Arthur – Arthur needs this. From him.

"No one else," Eames says against his skin, knowing it sounds like nonsense. "Tell me, Arthur." He bites down on the clenching muscles, then licks.

"What, Eames... Please, tell me what to say, please."

Eames can't look at him for this. "You need this, Arthur, you need it. You need to be, to be..."

"Yes," Arthur says, frantic, almost in a panic; he doesn't know what Eames wants to hear.

"No one else can do this to you."

There, he's said it. It hits him, what's getting to him, what's going on inside his own head. He's starting to feel the exhaustion creep into his body, his mind. He lifts his head and turns it to the side, still pressed against Arthur where he can hear his pulse roaring through his body. He catches sight of the array of toys, silly gadgets that he'd used to dominate Arthur, to make him squirm and ache and gasp. He imagines Arthur letting someone else do those things to him – the violence, the bruising, the edge of pain. The danger.

"No one else," Eames says.

"No one else," Arthur repeats.

But it's a game; Arthur wants to come, he'll beg. He already told Eames to tell him what to say, and now he's saying it and it means nothing. It means he wants to come.

Arthur reaches down and cups Eames's face in his palms, drawing him up to look at him. He's not in pain, not in desperation. Wild, aching for release, and somewhere inside of his own mind, but again in control. "Only you, Eames, I told you that."

Eames reaches down between them, strokes Arthur hard enough so that he arches up, shocked.

"You can come, Arthur. God, yes, you can come."

And Arthur does, sobbing with release, with gratitude. He even tries valiantly to say "thank you" but doesn't quite manage. His fingers dig into the back of Eames's neck until he comes down, flushed with exertion and exhaustion. Still, he doesn't let go.

It's the feel of Arthur's hands on his face, or maybe the friction, or maybe it doesn't matter, but Eames feels his spine arch, driving him in deeper, as if Arthur is drawing it out of him. Arthur jerks under him, oversensitive as Eames brushes against him, crushes him.

Eames falls against him, drenched and wrung out. They lie together for a few moments, trying to catch their breath. Then he becomes aware of Arthur's fingers ghosting over his neck, his shoulders and back. Comforting him.

Well, that will never do. He remembers Arthur's list from the last time, and he's also done some research himself. His sex-doped mind needs a few seconds to process what he's supposed to be doing, to get his body – feeling heavy and drugged – to move. He drags himself off of Arthur, and off of the bed.

"Lie here for a bit," Eames says. And, before he forgets, he goes to the mini-fridge and gets a bottle of cold water. Arthur had mentioned it last time and he definitely looks a little dehydrated at the moment. He opens the top and hands holds it out to him.

Arthur takes it with a knowing smile, murmuring "thanks" around the top of the bottle.

"Be out in a moment," Eames says, and heads to the bathroom.

Once in there, he takes a second. Breathes. Shakes out his arms and hands, throws a little cold water on his face. He's not done yet; there's still more to wrap up. He turns the shower on and adjusts it so it's just warm enough. Then he hurries back into the room, before Arthur can get it into his fussy head that Eames has just left him lying there while he goes to have yet another shower.

Arthur has turned onto his side by the time Eames comes out, and is toying interestedly with the violet wand. He looks a little dazed as he runs his fingers over it, as if it's something different than it was before. To him, perhaps, it is.

"Did you like it?" Eames asks.

"Yeah. It felt strange at first. I think I got used to it pretty fast." He looks up and offers a small smile.

"Up with you," Eames says, holding his hand out.

Arthur raises his eyebrows, considering. He takes Eames's hand and lets him pull him out of the bed and into the bathroom. He laughs a little when he sees the shower running, and that Eames is leading him into it. But when he says, "Thank you," he sounds like he means it.

They get into the shower together and Arthur shivers. Eames is immediately concerned, because the water isn't that cold, and he's done his share of research too. Then Arthur stumbles, falling backwards against him a little.

 _Shit, fuck, shit_ , is all that's going through Eames's head as he helps Arthur steady himself. But he holds himself together and says, "All right, Arthur? Come on now, turn around."

Arthur turns to him, already looking annoyed. "I'm all right," he says. "Just a dizzy spell, it hit me for a second."

Eames doesn't fuck around with this; he's got Arthur's wrist in his hand to check his pulse. It feels steady enough.

Arthur laughs a little at that. "I'm fine. Just a head-rush."

"The last time I saw you have a 'dizzy spell,' Arthur, you were in shock."

"I had a bullet in my arm that time," Arthur snaps. "A bit dissimilar to getting fucked really, really well." Yet even still, he leans forward and lays his head on Eames's shoulder, hands resting on Eames's hips lightly. He feels heavy and tired.

Eames slips an arm around his back and reaches for the small bottle of body-wash. It's cheap hotel shit, but it'll do. He rubs it between his hands and gently over Arthur's back. He clearly remembers marking him earlier--cringes at the thought of that again—so a face-cloth seems too rough to use.

He runs his bare, soapy hands smoothly all over Arthur, rubbing him down from top to bottom while Arthur braces himself with his hands against the tiles. Eames gets on one knee to gently wash his thighs, and looks up at him. Arthur's eyes are closed. A slight smile lingers on his mouth, a bit amused, affectionate. Intimately cared-for. Eames can't help but kiss his stomach, strangely chaste, considering his position. At this, Arthur laughs a quiet, "hmm."

"There we are," Eames says, rising to his feet.

When he shuts the water off, Arthur is still shivering. They get out of the shower, and Arthur is _still_ shivering. When Eames takes his chin in his hand and turns his face to look at him, Arthur looks faintly panicked.

"I, umm..." Arthur says, pulling at Eames's wrist and leaning away. He gives a shaky laugh and turns toward the sink, away from Eames. "This is so stupid, I can't even believe it. I think I'm dropping."

Eames thinks, _Fuck, fuck, bloody fuck_ , because he'd done everything by the book this time, he'd done his research and while, yes, he'd known that this could happen, he felt sure it wouldn't because he'd tried so hard to do everything right. But his panic will only add to Arthur's and they'll just siphon it off each other until it's out of control. He's seen it happen on amateur jobs and he's not going to let it happen in a hotel room after sex.

So he gathers his courage and puts his hand on Arthur's shoulder. _Fucking hell,_ he can still see the welts he left on his back. "It's not stupid," Eames says. "It's brain chemicals."

"I know, I know," Arthur says. "It's okay, it's nothing you did. It's me."

"What do you need?"

Arthur thinks about it for a second, head down over the sink, shoulders tight. "A minute," he says. "I just need a minute to get my shit together."

"Right," Eames says. And of course he'll give him a minute, he'll give Arthur all the bloody minutes he needs, but it really kind of hurts right now, maybe more than it should, that he can't even stay and be useful. "Take what you need," he says anyway, wrapping the scratchy hotel towel around his hips. "I'm going to go out there and tidy up a bit."

Arthur nods, but doesn't move.

Hesitant, Eames leaves him in the bathroom, second-guessing himself all the way. Maybe he should have stayed and offered more. More what, he doesn't know; more something. More touching maybe, or a kiss or two. But then he would be forcing aftercare on Arthur who is, after all, an adult who can take care of himself and everyone else besides. And even if he is feeling a little muddled, he still knows what he needs better than anyone could tell him.

' _I just need a minute to get my shit together_ ' is something Arthur says after a close call topside, when things could have gone very badly but often he's prevented disaster. It's decidedly not something Eames ever thought he would hear after having sex with him. He starts to think this whole thing is a terrible idea. If Arthur wants this kind of stress, he can get it at work. Why should Eames be party to it?

And yes, he'd liked it; he'd gotten off on it just as much as Arthur had. But no amount of spine-melting orgasms is enough to make him want to truly hurt Arthur, or really anyone.

So, still feeling this murky combination of guilt and admittedly vain hurt, Eames just starts to put all of the things that Arthur bought back into the bag. Arthur probably doesn't want to look at them. Then he sets about straightening out the bed so it looks a little less mussed.

He sits on the bed, feeling the dull beginnings of a headache, and waits.

** ** ** **  
 _Here Satan with his Angel... thunder-struck and astonisht, after a certain space recovers, as from confusion, calls up him who next in Order and Dignity lay by him._

It only takes Arthur a few minutes to "get his shit together", as is his norm. He comes out of the bathroom with a towel around his hips too, and casts around for his pants. He doesn't look upset or pale. Maybe a tad sheepish when he glances at Eames as he kneels down to reach under the bed.

"I left my go-bag under here," he says. "I didn't want it to look too presumptuous. Even though it was."

"No worries," Eames says.

Arthur opens an overnight bag and pulls out a pair of cotton pants, which he slips into. Awkwardly, he sits on the bed next to Eames.

"I'm sorry about that," he says. "I feel a little stupid."

"You shouldn't," is all Eames can think of to say to him. "You've done nothing wrong. How are you now?"

"I think I'm hungry. I haven't eaten since this afternoon."

"Oh," Eames says. "I've got some pretzels in my bag." He gets up (away from Arthur, away from the bruises on his legs and the welts on his back,) and goes rummaging through his flight-bag. "I'll ring up room service and have them bring something, but this will have to do until then." He tosses the bag to Arthur, who catches it one-handed.

"Thanks," Arthur says. He does some rummaging through his own bag and comes up with a fifty dollar bill, which he tosses onto the bed. "Can you order me eggwhites on a roll with cheese? I saw it on the all-night menu when I came in. And something for you, too."

"You don't have to pay for my..." _service_ , his brain supplies, which both amuses and horrifies him. "For my room service," he finishes.

"I'd like to. I crashed your hotel room."

That is fairly accurate. Eames shrugs, and rings room service to place an order.

When he's done, Arthur is still sitting on the bed, looking at him with a mixture of bemusement and unabashed expectation.

"What do you need?" Eames asks, sitting beside him.

"Oxytocin, according to research."

Eames laughs at him, fondly and without mocking. "I haven't got any on me at the moment."

Arthur laughs with him, and then they settle into an awkward silence.

"Is it all right if I touch you?" Eames asks.

"Yeah."

Eames slips an arm around his waist and kisses his shoulder. It's Arthur who pulls them both back to lie down, legs dangling off the edge of the bed. Eames adjusts his arm so that he can curl his hand around Arthur's hip, under the arch of his back. Arthur rests his palm against Eames's stomach, more companionable than intimate. Something in Eames settles, then.

Arthur clears his throat, which means he's going to say something that's been on his mind for a while. For once, Eames is eager to hear what it is.

"There's something I've been thinking about since last time," Arthur says, and Eames doesn't fight the smile that comes unbidden. "It was something you said."

"Good god," Eames says. "You can't hold me responsible for what comes out of my mouth."

Arthur turns his head to him, eyebrows raised. "Of course I can."

Eames keeps looking at the ceiling. "Well?"

"You said, 'I feel in so many complicated ways about you.' Remember?"

"Yeah."

Arthur raises his free hand to his own face and rubs briskly at his forehead. "Oh, fuck, I'm asking you about feelings," he says with a laugh. "This is so stupid."

"Yes, of course. Feelings are ridiculous things, never to be discussed or even acknowledged. We can learn nothing from the useless things."

"Yeah yeah," Arthur says. "Fuck off with your sarcasm. If that's the case then tell me what you meant."

Which is easier said than done. Eames casts around in his mind, trying to remember what his sex-soaked and confused brain had been stuck on when he'd said it. It comes to him more easily than he expects.

"I started thinking about you a lot after Fischer," he begins. "Though I'm not sure that's the place to start, it is where I had some revelations about you, not the least of which is that I began to understand your brand of brilliance. I've always appreciated your work, always thought you were the best at your job, I just never realized that you could mix it up the way you did. I did think highly of you before that. Your courage inspired me."

"Get a grip, Eames," Arthur says, smirking.

"Don't mock. When I first saw you I thought you were too green. I saw your work in a dream, but most people fresh in the business are reckless in dreams, and that's what I mistook your courage for. Then I saw you act topside on the second job we did together with you as point. And the next year, I saw you take a bullet and keep doing your job."

"That's what you were thinking of the first night we did this?"

"No," Eames says. "I'm just giving you a bit of context. I found you courageous and irritating and fuckable, but I didn't appreciate you until after everything went down with Cobb. He put our collective sanity, our livelihoods on the line."

"I know. I'm sorry about that."

"Don't be. I'm far past judging Cobb. But I know that when the two of you were on the run, he used your courage to its full potential. I could not, for my life, figure out why you stood by him. I thought of all different reasons: that he was blackmailing you; you owed him some debt; he'd rescued you from the military; really anything that would make it add up. I actually researched this, I asked everyone who knew the two of you, who had worked with you, about your history. And I came up with nothing. Nothing more than that you were friends, you'd worked together for a long time.

"But I've had friends, too, Arthur. I was set up once, took the heat for something I hadn't done. There was pain involved, torture. Everyone I knew, even the guilty parties, who were supposed to be mates of mine, looked the other way. If I had been accused of murder, not a single one of them would have done for me what you did for Cobb."

"I would have," Arthur says, frowning.

Eames turns to him. "Yes. But you didn't do it out of friendship, did you? You did it because you were convinced of his innocence."

"I guess."

Eames pulls him over, uncomfortably, with their legs still hanging off the edge of the bed. Face to face, he cups Arthur's jaw in his hand. "I want an Arthur."

Arthur looks tired, his mouth still red, finger-marks all over his body. Bites along his throat and chest. A burn on his shoulder. And suddenly a dam breaks. The adrenaline drains from Eames's body and he can actually feel other chemicals taking its place. They manifest in affection and guilt. It's a rush, it hurts, it exhausts him all at once. All he can do is close his eyes against it.

Arthur can probably sense what's going on, and reaches out to stroke his hair, and Eames thinks, _Fucking hell, this is backwards._ He's supposed to be caring for Arthur, and yet again, it's the other way around.

"You didn't hurt me," Arthur says. "Let's just get past that, all right? I'm the same person I was before. I have a few scratches, no big deal. We've sparred in the ring. Just keep reminding yourself of that. The only difference between that and this, is that this involves orgasms."

Eames can think of plenty of differences, such as, in the ring, Arthur leaves marks on him, too. But when Arthur puts it into this context, it does get easier to process.

"And you have me, okay, so let's quit with that 'I want an Arthur' shit. If anything happened to you like what happened to Cobb, I'd work for you, too. Actually, no. I'd work _with_ you."

Eames tugs on Arthur's waist and scoots them both farther up the bed so their legs aren't hanging off the edge. He pulls him a little closer, face to face. This is a much more comfortable position to supply Arthur with the oxytocin fix he'd requested. He supposes that this is their version of bonding pillow-talk: _'I'd break international laws on your behalf.'_ He knows that it's fucked up. But it's working nonetheless. He feels awash in Arthur, close to him.

"I trust you," Arthur says. "I like the way it felt when you were roughing me up. I like where I went in my head, that freedom, being in your hands. I can tell you without question that there's no one else on the planet who I'd go there with. Tell me that's okay with you."

"It is," Eames says. He puts his hand into Arthur's ridiculous, wavy hair, petting lightly at the back of his scalp. "I'm glad I can give you something you want."

"And you liked it?" Arthur asks, one eyebrow raised. "Like last time, you enjoyed it?"

"I did. You were so lovely for me, Arthur. When you were on your knees with your shirt open, I thought I'd come in my trousers like a teenager. Christ." His breath is speeding up even as he thinks about it again. He's drained, and years past three in a row, but his body is having a damn good try anyway.

Arthur rolls on top of him, pushing him back against the bed. His eyes are half-lidded with the almost sly look of seduction particular to him. Eames doesn't know anyone else who does eye-sex with as much focus. Arthur trails a finger down Eames's forehead, the slope of his nose and down to his lips, where he lingers. Eames parts his mouth and licks Arthur's fingertip before closing his lips and sucking. Arthur's breath escapes him in a rush. He leans closer, making his intentions perfectly clear and, _oh_ , this feels so necessary...

Someone knocks at the door and announces ' _Room service!'_

Arthur jerks back, saying, "Oh, food. Thank god." He starts to get up, presumably to put on trousers and answer the door.

Eames presses him back down to the bed, saying, "Hush, let me get it."

"You're not wearing any pants," Arthur reminds him.

Eames turns to the door and says, "Just a moment," while he pulls his trousers on and does up the flies. So the man at the door is going to get an eyefull of two shirtless men; not a big deal. He takes Arthur's fifty dollars and answers the door.

Of course it's a grand affair, room service, the man wheeling the entire cart into the room and asking if they're enjoying their stay, advising them of specials going on, coupons and where they're redeemable, local activities and other such nonsense while Arthur pulls the coverlet up over his hips but remains otherwise unabashed.

Eames hands over the fifty and Arthur says, "Keep the change."

With a flurry of gratitude, the man finally leaves and Eames brings the tray over to the bed.

Arthur eats ravenously, like he's never had eggwhites on a roll before and has only lived on crackers and water. Eames watches him fondly as he slowly eats his own food. He likes watching Arthur enjoy things.

"I feel so much better," Arthur announces, still chewing and wiping his mouth on the cloth napkin. "Eames, are you going to finish your fries? Or could I have a couple?"

Well, he _was_ going to finish them, but Arthur's enthusiasm for his chips—his _fries_ \--is too joyful. And Arthur has a way of looking like a starving artist. "No," Eames says, "take them."

"Just a couple," Arthur says, taking a handful. "Thanks. Mmm. God, I was hungry."

Eames also likes Arthur without manners, when the 'business' part of 'businessman' fucks off.

"So," Arthur says, dipping his chips in ketchup. "Where are you headed tomorrow?"

"I've narrowed it down to Rome."

Arthur's brow furrows. "Rome? That's your lie-low place. Did something go wrong? Shit, I didn't even bother to ask you before I came barging in, did I?"

"All's well, Arthur," he says. "It won't be till tomorrow around noon local time that the gent I just finished up with will realize that the man he's trying to swindle has out-swindled him. By twenty five percent."

Arthur laughs around a mouthful of chips and says, "Nice."

"Other than that," Eames says, "I've nothing specific planned. Bit of lounging, really. You?"

"Mmm," Arthur shrugs. "I just spent a few days with Cobb, worked an extraction on an arms dealer and did two days of personal security for the same team who hired me as point."

Eames looks at Arthur, cross-legged on the bed, half naked with his hair drying into curls, eating the rest of Eames's chips, and he thinks, _'personal security._ ' It's easy for him to see why Arthur is dangerous – less so for others and that's part of what makes him so effective.

"Now I'm taking a break," Arthur says. He looks down to his empty plate and pretends to wipe non-existent crumbs off of his chest.

Similarly, Eames reaches out and pretends to brush a non-existent crumb from the side of Arthur's mouth, and a non-existent lock of hair from his forehead. "Care to take your break in Rome?"

Arthur's smile is slow and warm. He's got a sesame seed in his teeth. Eames thinks he looks lovely. "I like Rome," he says as he puts his empty plate aside. He crawls across the bed so he's kneeling in front of Eames, again with the sex-eyes. "Remember last time?"

"I do." They'd gotten drunk and Arthur had fucked him on the lanai. They'd fallen asleep out there until sunup. "Could do without the mosquito bites this time," Eames adds.

"But the rest of it."

"Yeah, that was good."

"It was good," Arthur says, crawling to straddle Eames's thighs. "We can get the same hotel, do it again. With bug repellant." Arthur toys with his hair, kisses him lightly on the mouth.

"You make 'bug repellant' sound kinky."

"What time are you heading out?" Arthur asks.

"Well, before noon," Eames says. He can feel the grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"Separate flights," Arthur says. "I have all my shit in a different hotel. But I'll fly out tomorrow, okay?"

God, Arthur is going to come with him. Not for business, not because he has to be there, but because he wants to. And, Eames thinks, of course they're going to argue, and annoy one another, and want to do different things some of the time. But, as Arthur continues to nudge at his neck with his nose and his lips, fingers crawling up his arms and down his back, he thinks that will still be all right.

At any rate, it will never be boring.


End file.
